


will I ever make a sound?

by themetaphorgirl



Series: Waving Through a Window [16]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Dilaudid, Drama, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Seizures, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Spencer Reid Whump, Spencer's drug addiction, seizure disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetaphorgirl/pseuds/themetaphorgirl
Summary: Spencer told himself he could break his addiction to dilaudid. So when the rest of the team found out, he tried to push them away. Luckily for him, they were not dissuaded that easily.
Relationships: Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Series: Waving Through a Window [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673107
Comments: 197
Kudos: 560





	1. caught

**Author's Note:**

> "if you're falling in a forest, and there's nobody around, do you ever even crash or even make a sound?"
> 
> Spencer Reid grew up too fast, too harsh, too lonely. His "intellect is a shield which protects him from his emotions" and for a long time he thought he could be just fine without connections. After all, he learned quickly how to survive as a little kid in high school, as a child prodigy in college, as a fatherless kid taking care of his mother while she couldn't take care of him. He could rely on his intelligence, instead of feelings.
> 
> Once he joined the BAU, however, the team quickly formed their own ideas.
> 
> Part 16 of 25
> 
> also published on ff.net under the name Keitorin Asthore

_will I ever make a sound?_

Spencer drifted. He didn't know what time it was, or what day, or if he was in pain. He felt nothing. Sometimes he faded back to reality, to the scratch of his clothes against his skin and his hair clinging to his damp forehead and the suffocating silence and his conscience screaming that _this wasn't supposed to happen, this was never supposed to happen again._

He had always sworn he wouldn't take anything at work. But Charles Hankel was right, he was weak, he had always been weak and he would never be strong enough to fight back, so he leaned heavily against the bathroom sink, the aftertaste of the pill he'd dry-swallowed still chalky and bitter on his tongue, his vision crashing, the world spinning dizzily around him, and he continued to drift alone, his thoughts empty.

* * *

Hotch read through Reid's notes on the Hankel file, horror mounting in his chest. He'd watched the livestreams as they happened, he was the first one to reach Reid when they found him in the cemetery, he'd spent the past few months watching Reid shift and fade into someone he didn't recognize.

This was not what he expected. This was worse than he had imagined.

"Hotch? I knocked about half a dozen times. Didn't you hear me?"

He looked up. "Hm?"

Gideon frowned from the doorway. "You all right?" he asked.

He felt like he was hungover, like he'd been underwater for too long and had just broken the surface to breathe seconds before he drowned. "I can't explain it," he said. "Just…... just read this."

* * *

Morgan dropped his things on his desk with a clatter and laughed when Emily jumped about a mile in the air. "Sorry, Prentiss," he said. "Still not awake?"

"God, no," she sighed, rubbing her temples. "Could not fall asleep last night to save my life."

"Did you try those melatonin gummies?" JJ suggested.

"By the time I remembered, it was three in the morning, and there was absolutely no way I'd be able to function if I took them that late," Emily said. "But...I texted Garcia and she's bringing coffee."

Morgan nodded towards the double glass doors. "Speak of the devil," he said with a grin. "There she is, my baby girl, come to bless us with caffeine."

She beamed. "What would you guys do without me?" she said, setting down the drink carrier on Morgan's desk. "Emily, my glorious angel, I added an extra shot."

"Oh, I could kiss you," Emily said fervently, grabbing at her venti cup.

Garcia handed out drinks. "One for JJ, one for my handsome dream man-"

"Thanks, baby girl," Morgan said.

"-and one for our fearless leader. Perfect timing, Hotch, here's yours."

Hotch took the drinks from Garcia, but he didn't seem to notice it. "Thanks," he said absently.

Garcia pulled out two more cups. "I have a grande dark roast for Gideon, and a white chocolate mocha for Reid," she said. "But they're not here. Why aren't they here? I need to know where they are."

Emily frowned. "Yeah, it's past nine," she said. "It's not that weird for Gideon, he just kind of…... appears out of nowhere, but Reid's never late."

"Reid's in the bathroom," Hotch said. "Gideon's in my office, reading-" He broke off mid sentence and exhaled slowly. "Reid finished his notes on the Hankel case," he said.

"Oh, shit," Morgan said. "Is it...is it that bad?"

Hotch dragged his hand over his face. "Yeah," he confessed. "It's bad. Worse than I thought."

"How bad?" Garcia asked, eyes round.

"He wrote all of it out. Every conversation he had with all three alters. The beatings. The drugs."

"Drugs?" Morgan repeated.

"Hankel injected him repeatedly with dilaudid," Hotch said. "He used it himself to deal with his father's abuse."

"Oh, god," Emily said. "JJ and I talked to Hankel's sponsor at Narcotics Anonymous, it was his own special blend of dilaudid and-"

"And a psychedelic, I remember," JJ said quietly.

Hotch took a long swig of his coffee. "He stayed here all night to finish writing it. He slept at his desk- if he actually slept. He seems really shaken up."

"Yikes," Garcia sighed. "Is he okay? Should somebody go check on him?"

"I will," Morgan said, setting his coffee down, and he stalked away before anyone could stop him.

His gut instincts were screaming at him that something was _wrong._ He'd never seen Hotch distracted like this. Whatever the kid wrote in the file had to be horrific to get a reaction like this out of him. And it had to have taken a lot out of Reid to finally write it out, after putting it off for almost five months.

There was no way he was letting Reid stay at work. The kid would probably put up a fight, insist he could hold out, but that was going to be out of the question. He was going to get him home if he had to drive him himself. Maybe it would give him the chance to finally get him to open up, talk about what was bothering him. A little catharsis might go a long way.

Morgan tapped the bathroom door open. "Hey, Reid, you okay?" he asked. He paused. Reid was slumped over the sink, the taps still running. He leaned around him and switched them off. "Hey, pretty boy, talk to me. What's wrong? Are you sick?"

Reid looked up slowly, his hair hanging over his eyes, and shook his head, clumsy and uncoordinated. "Talk to me," Morgan coaxed. "You look like hell." He touched the back of his hand to his forehead. "You don't have a fever."

Reid shook his head again, swaying on his feet. His eyes were red-rimmed like he'd been crying. "Not sick," he said, his lips slack. "Fine."

Morgan frowned. "You're not fine," he said.

No, Reid wasn't sick, he'd seen Reid sick before and this wasn't it, this was different. He'd seen people like this before, but not Reid, never Reid- but there was no way, there was no way in hell that he was-

"Are you...are you _high_?" he asked, incredulous.

There was no way, he was too smart for that, he couldn't possibly-

Reid shook his head. "Fine," he repeated desperately. He lurched to his feet. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna go back to work…"

His knees buckled and Morgan caught him swiftly, letting him collapse into his chest. "That's not happening," he said. His arms tightened around him, and _god,_ when did Reid get so thin? "I got you. I got you."

Reid's head dropped against his shoulder. "Let me go," he said.

Morgan tightened his grip on him, irrationally afraid that if he let go he would dissolve into thin air. "What did you take?" he demanded.

" _Nothing_ ," Reid insisted. "Let me go, Morgan!"

He planted the heels of his palms against Morgan's shoulders and pushed, trying to shove him away. "Yeah, that's not gonna work, kid," he said, catching his wrists. "Tell me. What did you take?"

Reid turned away, his hair falling over his eyes. "Nothing, it's nothing, it's nothing…" He was shaking like a leaf in Morgan's grip. "I have...a prescription. It's... it's totally legal, I'm-"

"For what?"

"I'm _hurting_ , Morgan, it's...it's just a painkiller, I…"

Morgan gave him a little shake, his fingers wrapping around Reid's skinny upper arms. "You gotta be honest with me," he said. "No more avoiding it. No more pretending you're fine when you're not. You hear me? I'm done. Look me in the eyes and tell me what's wrong."

Reid stared at the tiled floor. "I can't," he said. "I... I can't. It's okay, I can...I can fix it myself, I can, I'll…"

"Is it the dilaudid?" Morgan asked quietly.

All the color drained from Reid's face. Morgan eased his grip on his arms. "Well," he said. "Is it?"

Reid pressed his fist against his mouth, and he gave a tiny nod.

Morgan's heart plummeted to the floor. "Okay," he said. Reid's face crumpled, half hidden in his hands. "Okay, pretty boy. We're gonna get you through this. You hear me?"

"I can't stop," he said, half muffled behind his palms. "Derek, I can't stop. I can't, I can't-"

Morgan squeezed his arms. "You can," he said. "You can, kid." He pressed his forehead against Reid's. "Listen to me. We're not gonna fix it in a day, understand? One thing at a time." He leaned back, holding him at arm's length. Reid kept his hands over his face. "Let's get you out of the bathroom first."

"No," Reid said desperately. "I can't...I can't walk out there. God, I can't, my life is over, I-"

"Take a deep breath," Morgan said. He wrestled his phone out of his back pocket. "Take a second, splash some cold water on your face. Get yourself together, and I'll handle this."

* * *

JJ drummed her fingers on her desk. Morgan's text had set her teeth on edge- maybe she'd read it wrong, his texting skills were god-awful and nearly illegible. But Garcia had confirmed it, since she was a pro at deciphering his messages.

_Cler bllpen wait in ur ofice reid sos_

So she cleared the bullpen, herding everyone else out, and she was sitting on the edge of her desk, anxiously staring at the open door.

She saw Morgan walk through the empty bullpen, his hand tight on Spencer's shoulder. Something had to be wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

Morgan ushered Spencer into her office and closed the door behind them. "Hey, what's going on?" she asked. "Spence, are you okay?"

He stared off in the distance, his eyes unfocused, his fingers curled against his mouth. JJ touched his arm and he flinched away from her. "He needs a little time by himself," Morgan said quietly. "I need him to stay in your office with you while I talk to everyone else. I'll catch you up afterwards. Just...don't let him out of your sight."

"Okay," she said, bewildered. "Is that...is that all?"

"For now," Morgan said. "It'll make sense later. But-" He hesitated. "Just keep him close, okay?"

She nodded. "Sure," she said, her arms tightly folded. Morgan shut the blinds on her office windows, casting the room into a soft dimness, and closed the door with a firm click as he left.

She studied Spencer closely. He looked like a zombie, his face chalk white and his arms dangling at his sides. She wanted to press him for answers- was he sick, was he hurt, was he in trouble? But now didn't seem like the best time to get him to talk.

"You want to lie down?" she asked gently. He nodded, still mute, and this time when she reached for him he allowed her to lead him to the small couch pushed up against the wall and guide him to sit down. His legs were too long to stretch out and he folded himself up small, curling his arms against his chest. She pulled down a folded blanket and shook it out, tossing it over him and tucking it around him snugly. He didn't react- didn't mumble a thank you or even make eye contact.

"Hey," she said. "Do you want to talk about what's going on?" He stared up at the ceiling and shook his head. "Okay. I'll be right there at my desk if you need me."

Spencer turned away from her. She bit her lip, but after a moment she crossed over to her desk and the stack of case files waiting for her. He didn't move, didn't make a sound, but she watched him like a hawk out of the corner of her eye.

He stayed still and quiet. A few times she thought he had fallen asleep, but every time she checked he was awake, staring at the back of the couch. It was like he was catatonic, lost so deeply in his own thoughts that he couldn't pull himself back out. 

It seemed like ages before Morgan came back, the strap of Spencer's messenger bag slung over his shoulder. "He okay?" he asked immediately.

"Fine. I think."

Morgan bent over Spencer and gave his shoulder a gentle shake. "Hey, kid," he said. "You gotta get up. Time to go home."

Spencer lurched up into a sitting position, his hair rumpled and his shirt collar sticking up on one side. "Hm?"

"Let's go, pretty boy," Morgan said. He took Spencer by the arm and hefted him to his feet.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" JJ asked impatiently.

Morgan held onto Spencer as if he was the anchor keeping him from drifting away. "They'll get you caught up," he said. "I gotta get him home."

JJ followed them out the door, biting back a frustrated scowl as she watched them walk away. She needed to know what secrets they were keeping, but she knew all she could do was wait.


	2. morgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's trying to fight it off on his own, but he might end up having to accept Morgan's help

The closer they got to Reid's apartment building, the more Reid began to squirm and fidget in the passenger seat of the car. Morgan didn't acknowledge it. Better to get the kid home safe first than pick a fight while he was driving, so he kept his eyes straight ahead on the road, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, and kept the radio playing.

He pulled into a parking spot and Reid was out of the car before he could turn the ignition off. "Okay, Morgan, thank you so much for the ride home, I can take it from here," he said.

Morgan got out of the car and dropped his keys in his pocket. "Slow down," he said. "I'm not leaving you here."

Reid halted, hugging his messenger bag to his chest. "But why not?" he whined. "Isn't this enough?"

"Nope," Morgan said. "Besides-" he pulled Reid's keychain out of his pocket. "I've got this. You're stuck with me."

Reid's mouth dropped open. "That's unethical."

"I don't really care at the moment," Morgan said. He put his hand on Reid's shoulder and steered him towards the building. "Let's go."

Reid dragged his feet, slowing down on the steep stairs, and Morgan wasn't sure if he was throwing a temper tantrum or genuinely couldn't make the climb. Probably both. At this point, his last dose was probably wearing off.

He unlocked the door and ushered Reid inside, but he kept the keys in his pocket. "Nice place," he commented.

Reid sagged under the weight of his messenger bag, pulling his shoulder down. "You didn't come here to look at my apartment," he said flatly.

"No," Morgan said. "No, I didn't."

Reid hugged his arms protectively around his stomach. "Go ahead," he said bitterly.

"Go ahead with what?"

He shrugged. "Tell me off," he said. "I'm sure that's you were talking about with the rest of the team. Tell me I'm fired. Tell me I'm-"

His voice cracked. Morgan crossed his arms. "I'm not gonna tell you off," he said gently. "And you're not fired."

Reid shrugged. He was still wearing the same wrinkled clothes he'd worn the day before, his tie hanging at a crooked angle. "So why are you here?" he asked.

"Because you've got to get off this stuff," Morgan said. "You know it, and I know it. And the rest of the team knows it. And my best guess is that you've already tried to detox on your own, and it didn't work. You can't go withdrawal by yourself."

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew he'd said the wrong thing, because Reid crumpled like a wet piece of paper, his shoulders bowing, his head dropping. "Because I'm _weak_ ," he said.

Morgan grabbed his arm and squeezed tight. "Hey, hey, that's not what I mean, and you know that," he said. "You're not weak. You're one of the toughest people I've ever met."

Reid wouldn't meet his eyes. "If I was so tough, I could do this on my own," he said in a low voice.

Morgan gave him a little shake. "Hey, no, that's not it at all," he said. "Withdrawal is gonna _suck_ , man. It's gonna be scary. Garcia did some research, this is going to feel like the worst flu you've ever had in your life. You need somebody with you. To take care of you."

Reid's shoulders hitched. "I don't need anybody to take care of me," he said stiffly.

Morgan squeezed his arm. "Yeah, you do, pretty boy," he said. "You might not be ready to accept it. But I'm tired of sitting by and asking you if you're okay, and watching you fall apart in front of me. We all are."

He let go of Reid's arms; there was still a chance the kid was going to make a run for it, but maybe not right this second. "You've got a week off of work," he said. "Someone is going to stay with you until you get through the worst of this."

"What if there's a case?" Reid challenged.

"Then Garcia is going to set up her tech stuff here so she can help us and help you at the same time," he said.

"I don't...I don't need help, Morgan," Reid said, his jaw tight.

Morgan sighed. "Listen, kid," he said. "I know you don't want to hear it. But honestly? If this was something you could beat on your own, you would have. I've never met anyone as stubborn as you."

Reid shrugged helplessly. "I can quit on my own," he said. "I'll be fine, Morgan."

"How much do you have left?"

Reid blinked. "What?"

"The dilaudid. How much do you have left?"

All the fight seemed to drain from Reid's shoulders. "Some," he said.

"Okay. How much is 'some'?" Morgan pressed.

Wordlessly Reid pulled the strap of his messenger bag over his head and handed it to Morgan. "There's a bottle in there," he said dully.

"Is that all?"

Reid shrugged.

"Don't lie to me, kid," he warned. "I swear, if I find out you tried to hold onto some of it-"

"The rest is in my bathroom," Reid said. "Back of the cabinet, on the right. Another bottle of pills, and the...the rest of it." He raised his head. "I promise. That's all."

Morgan raised an eyebrow, but Reid didn't drop eye contact. "Okay," he said. He dug through the bag until his fingers closed around the orange bottle. "C'mon. You're gonna do this with me. Where's your bathroom?"

Reid pointed. Morgan steered him over and switched on the lights, then knelt down by the cabinet. Reid hadn't even bothered to hide his paraphanelia- another orange bottle, two small glass vials (one empty and one still half full), and a handful of unused needles made a little heap under the sink pipes. Morgan grabbed the bottles and straightened up.

"You've been shooting up?" he asked quietly.

"That's how it started," Reid said, his words clipped.

Morgan bit back the lecture he wanted to give. "Hold out your hands," he said. Reid pressed his mouth together, but he obeyed. Morgan placed the bottles in his cupped hands, then lifted the lid on the toilet. "Dump it out. All of it."

Reid blanched. "But I...what if I…"

"You're not going back," Morgan said. "You're done. And you can't get clean if you're still keeping this stuff around."

Reid gazed down at the bottles, and after a long moment he uncapped one of the orange bottles and dumped it out. The second one followed right after, the pills clanking together as he dropped the contents. The glass vial he held a little longer, rolling it in his palms so the pearlized liquid caught the light. Morgan held his breath.

Finally Reid pulled off the silver top and poured out what was left of Tobias Hankel's poison, then threw the empty bottle into the trash and flushed the toilet. "There," he said. "You happy?"

"This isn't about me," Morgan said. "How about you? Are you happy?" Reid shrugged. He didn't seem happy, but then again, Morgan couldn't remember the last time he saw the kid happy. Before Georgia, maybe.

"Can you go now?" Reid asked. "I can't get high now, you've won, I've got no other choice but to detox."

"Trust me, you're gonna need somebody here with you when it gets bad," Morgan said.

Reid crossed his arms, his mouth drawing down in a scowl. "I don't need a babysitter, Derek Morgan," he said. "You can go."

"Doesn't work like that, kid," he said.

Reid's scowl deepened. "Fine," he said, and abruptly he turned on his heel and walked away. Morgan heard a door slam and a lock click. Despite himself, and the situation, he bit back a grin. Intelligence be damned, there were still plenty of ways that Spencer was still just a kid, and right now he was definitely acting like an angry teenager.

At least now he could scope out Reid's apartment at his leisure. It was a small place, old fashioned, with sage green walls and dark wood. Somehow it seemed to fit him. There were several mistmatched shelves (all sagging under the weight of books), a well-worn couch, and a cluttered desk. He didn't have a computer, which didn't surprise him, and a small TV, which did.

He wandered into the kitchen. It seemed practically untouched. There were a couple of dishes, all cheap and mismatched, and a few dented pots and pans. The fridge was almost empty, the cabinet worse. There were a couple of ramen packets, some pasta. Stuff that wouldn't go bad if he was on a case for too long.

Even without switching on his profiler programming, it was easy to see. Single, introverted, intelligent, workaholic. Lonely. The apartment was barely a step up from a college dorm room.

He pulled out his phone and hit Garcia's speed dial. "Derek?" she said, picking up on the first ring.

"What, no nicknames?"

"Not at a time like this, my love," she said. "How is he?"

Morgan crossed his arms over his chest and moved farther into the small kitchen. "I don't know," he said. "You know what he's like. He could be on fire and he would cancel the call for the fire department."

"Yeah, yeah, you're not wrong," she sighed.

"But I did get him to throw out all of his stuff," Morgan said. "Watched him flush it."

"And you're sure that was all of it?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure about it. Garcia, he wants to quit. He's just never...never been at a place where he could do it."

"But now withdrawal starts," she said.

"His last dose is still wearing off," he said. "So he's not feeling it quite yet."

"Oh, but he'll feel it soon," Garcia said. "He'll really feel it soon. I've spent some quality time on WebMD looking at this. It's not pretty."

"He'll get there, I'm sure," Morgan said. He glanced around, making sure that Spencer wasn't going to pop up out of nowhere. "He's locked up in his room right now. He doesn't want me here."

"Yeah, we figured on that," she said. "But there's no way we can just leave him. Are you still okay to stay through tomorrow?"

"I'm good, I've got my go bag in the car," he said.

"Good. Perfect. And I'm putting together the schedule for the rest of the week," Garcia said. "Now is there anything you need right now?"

"Food," Morgan said dryly. "You know how we always talk about how Reid can blow away in a strong enough breeze?"

"Oh, definitely. Every time he puts on his flak vest I'm like 'damn, that thing weighs more than he does'."

"Yeah, well...he has pretty much nothing edible here," Morgan said. "I think he survives solely on the coffee and croissant he picks up on the way to work."

"Shit," Garcia said. "Well, you know that I won't stand for that. Don't you worry, I'll take care of it. Keep an ear out for a knock on the door."

"You're an angel, Garcia," he said.

"Honestly, I'm just trying to balance out my karma," she said, but he could hear the smile in her voice. "And you know I'd do anything for that boy."

"Yeah, I know."

He could hear her typing busily. "Is there anything else I should know right this second?" she asked.

"Not really."

"But you'll let us know the second anything changes?"

"Absolutely, mama. I'll take good care of him, don't worry."

"Listen, Morgan, I can't help but worry, worry is deeply embedded in my programming," she said. "Talk to you soon. Love you. Tell that sweet angel I love him too."

"I will," he said. He closed the phone and slid it into his pocket.

There really wasn't much he could do, not while Spencer was locked up in his room having a temper tantrum. He settled down on the couch- it was old, clearly secondhand, but pretty comfortable, all things considered- and turned on the small television. Of course Spencer wouldn't have cable, but at least he could find something.

Garcia's promised knock happened around six o'clock; he opened the door to find a harried delivery driver laden down with white paper bags. "Sorry, my man, I don't have any cash on me-"

"No worries, the lady who ordered already tipped me," the guy said.

Morgan accepted the order with a grin. It was an upside of Garcia knowing everything; she knew exactly what to order for them. He unpacked the food containers onto the narrow kitchen counter. "Hey, Reid," he called. "You hungry?"

He didn't hear an answer, but he wasn't exactly expecting one. Instead he pulled a plate out of the cabinet and wiped it clean, then heaped it with food and stuck a plastic fork in it. There was no telling what Reid would actually eat, might as well give him options.

He knocked lightly. "Hey, Reid," he said. "I've got dinner for you."

There was a long pause, and then the door creaked partially open. "Where?" Reid asked. "I don't have anything here."

"Garcia works in mysterious ways," he said. "Come on. You want it or not?"

Reid bit his lip, and then accepted the plate. "You don't have to stay, you know," he said.

"I know," Morgan said. "I want to stay. You want to come out here and eat with me, or you want to keep hiding in your room?"

Reid sighed. "I'll come out," he said, clearly irritated. "But after dinner you can go home, okay?"

"Sure," Morgan said. He had absolutely no intention of leaving.

There wasn't a table or chairs in the apartment, but Reid sat on the far right side of the couch and Morgan followed suit, settling down on the opposite side. "You want to watch something?" Morgan asked. Reid shrugged.

He turned on a baseball game. He didn't like baseball, and he knew Reid certainly didn't care, but it was better than silence. And it gave him a cover to surreptitiously keep an eye on him.

The food was good, but Reid only picked it at. He had to be starving; there was no way he'd had anything else to eat earlier in the day. After a while he set his plate aside, still two-thirds full.

He counted back- it was at least ten hours since Reid's last dose of dilaudid. He was bound to hit withdrawal soon, or at least by the next morning.

Reid got up abruptly. "Thanks for hanging out," he said, grim sarcasm dripping from his words. "Want me to walk you to the door?"

"Nah, I think I'm gonna stay here for the night," Morgan said. He stretched his long legs across the couch. "Just in case." Reid rolled his eyes and headed back to his room in a huff.

Morgan busied himself with putting the rest of the food away and setting the kitchen back in order. He sent a text to Garcia _(nthng yet, stayin here)_ so she wouldn't worry, got his go bag out of his car, and got settled on the couch. There wasn't much to do but watch TV while he waited him out. Reid was stubborn, but he could be too.

It was past midnight when he decided to turn off the TV and call it a night. He didn't hear anything from Reid's room, but he could see light shining from under the door. Briefly he debating taking a look and checking on him, but he decided against it. If the kid was asleep, he didn't want to wake him. The couch wasn't exactly comfortable, but he'd dealt with worse, and he was pretty good at falling asleep anywhere, at any time.

* * *

Spencer stared at the wall and pulled the covers up to his shoulders. The sun was beginning to peek through the curtains, but he still hadn't fallen asleep. Something buzzed and crawled under his skin, a nervous energy that kept him wide awake.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the pills tumbling out of the bottle, the last of the liquid dripping from the vial. For so long he had tried to quit, told himself to quit, and now he had no other choice.

_He wasn't ready to let go._

He needed to let go. He'd known that for months now, had known the first time he slid the needle in his arm. But it was hard. Too hard to do alone.

He could hear footsteps in the hall, the sound of the shower running. Morgan was still there.

Spencer pulled the covers over his head, blocking out the light. Maybe if he pretended he was asleep, Morgan would leave. Maybe if he pretended hard enough, he actually would fall asleep.

He was past the twenty-four hour mark. He hadn't gone this long without dilaudid since…

He had to think about it. Texas. The case in Texas, the military unsub with PTSD. That was months ago.

The shower had stopped running. He held his breath, listening for footsteps, but he heard nothing. Good. Maybe Morgan had left. It was well past time for him to go to work, anyway.

Spencer pushed the covers back and stared at the ceiling. He'd worn the same clothes for two days now, too tired to change, too tired to care. There wasn't any point.

Morgan was right, withdrawal was going to be hell. He'd already done his research. It was probably stupid of him to quit so abruptly, but it didn't matter. Anything he felt, any suffering he went through...he probably deserved it.

He heard a firm cheerful knock on the door and bolted upright.

"Good morning, I got you coffee," Morgan said through the door. "I know you can't say no to that."

Spencer pressed the heels of his palms against his forehead as the room swam around him. He'd gotten up way too fast. And there was a headache pouding behind his eyes, threatening to shift into a migraine.

"Come on, kid, before it gets cold," Morgan said.

He could hear the shit-eating grin in Morgan's voice. Of course he'd be smug, thinking he'd found a way to lure Spencer out of his room.

Then again. Coffee would be nice.

He crawled out of bed, tugging at the covers tangled around his legs, and cracked the door open. Sure enough, Morgan had a shit-eating grin and a venti cup in his hand. "Coffee?" he croaked.

"Uh-huh," Morgan said. He took a step back, holding the cup over his head. "Come on out. I got you breakfast too."

Spencer sighed heavily. This was not what he wanted, but he needed the caffeine so badly. Maybe it would take away his headache before it dropped into migraine territory. "Fine," he said. He stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him, and held out his hand. "Please?"

Morgan placed the cup in his hand, then gave him a little nudge towards the living room. "Go on, pretty boy."

Spencer took it and curled up in the corner of the couch, holding the cup with both hands and letting the warmth seep into his cold palms. There was a tremor in his fingers and he didn't trust himself to let go.

Morgan dropped a foil-wrapped breakfast sandwich beside him. "Got you that too," he said.

Spencer eyed it cautiously. He was about to tell Morgan he wasn't hungry, but suddenly his stomach growled, betraying him, and he gingerly set down the coffee in order to pick it up. His appetite had all but vanished over the last few months; he just wasn't hungry that often, and when he was hungry he felt too nauseated to eat.

At least Morgan wasn't staring at him. He'd noticed that, especially in the past few weeks- how the others on the team would watch him with those searing profiler stares when they thought he wouldn't notice.

Honestly, it was remarkable that they hadn't figured out his situation earlier. Maybe he'd just gotten a lot better at lying.

He finished the sandwich and crumpled up the foil. His stomach was already beginning to twist into knots; maybe it wasn't a very good idea after all. "Thanks for breakfast," he said instead. "Are you heading home soon? I'm sure my couch wasn't very comfortable."

Morgan was starting on his second sandwich. "Nah, man, it was great," he said.

For all the shit the team gave him about not being able to pick up on social cues, Morgan sure wasn't picking up on his. Or maybe he was being purposefully obtuse. Spencer reached for this coffee cup, gritting his teeth against the sudden sloshing feeling in his brain.

"What's wrong, pretty boy?"

Spencer took a slow, even sip of his coffee. His vision fractured in neon green lines and fuchsia splotches for a second. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "Just a headache." Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Don't give me that look. Headaches are normal."

He didn't hear the reply. His hearing went fuzzy, his ears flooding with radio static, and Morgan's voice was indistinct, under water.

He blinked, and his coffee cup was on the ground, his clothes splattered wet and tepid, and his headache was pressing into his eyes.

"-better, that's a lot better, just take it easy-"

Spencer tilted his head, frowning. "I spilled my coffee," he said, and his tongue felt too thick and heavy in his mouth.

Morgan was kneeling beside him, one hand on his knee and the other bracing his shoulder, as if he was trying to keep him from collapsing forward. "Don't worry about it," he said.

"I don't remember spilling it," he said stupidly.

Morgan raked his hair back from his forehead. Spencer's heart squeezed in his chest. He had never seen that expression on his face before- Morgan looked _scared_.

"I think you had a seizure," he said quietly. "Not a big one. But definitely a seizure."

Spencer's mouth went painfully dry. "I did?" he said.

_...waking up on the floor of the cabin, air catching in his lungs, chest aching and bruised, his head pounding, his savior gazing down at him but his savior tried to kill him…_

"...hey, Spencer, come back," Morgan was saying, his broad hand cupping his cheek. "You got that weird look in your eyes again."

"You're sure it was a seizure?" Spencer asked, and he hated that his voice came out small and wobbly.

"Yeah, pretty sure," he said. "You, uh...your hand locked up and you started pulling at your shirt, and you couldn't answer me. Like when we were on the plane coming home from Georgia." Spencer pressed his hands to his temples.

_JJ squeezing his hand in both of hers, painfully tight; Gideon's keen eyes watching him close. "You had a seizure, a small one. You're all right."_

_The itching burn on his neck and collarbone where he'd scratched at his skin, the shame and panic bubbling in his chest. "Did...did everybody see?"_

" _No. Nobody saw."_

Morgan saw, apparently.

"How about you go take a shower or something?" Morgan suggested. "You're looking pretty rough. Take a while and get your head on straight." Spencer nodded and pushed himself up from the couch. "I'll be right out here if you need me."

"Thanks," Spencer mumbled. He moved slowly, like gravity was pulling at him and dragging him down. There was an ache deep in his bones, seeping through his muscles, and all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a thousand years.

 _I need a hit_ , he thought, and he bit his lip hard. He didn't need it. He was fine. He was going to be fine.

* * *

He had to wait a couple of hours for Reid to doze off before he could make a phone call. Otherwise the only way he could communicate with the rest of the team was texting, and _god,_ he hated it. Everyone else made it look so easy and he was all thumbs. Couldn't spell to save his life.

Garcia picked up on the second ring. "You've reached the queen of the geniuses, what's happening?"

"Hey, your majesty, I got an update for you."

"Oh! Morgan! Oh! Okay, okay, hold on just a second, you called at the perfect time, JJ's here, let me put you on speaker. Okay. Now go."

"Hey, JJ," he said, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter.

"Hi. How is he?"

Morgan glanced around to get a better look into the living room. "Well, he's definitely sliding into withdrawal," he said. "It's been, uh...thirty-six hours. It's starting to hit."

"How bad?" Garcia asked.

He could see Reid asleep on the couch, his arms curled into his chest and his legs folded to fit in the space. "I mean, he's still not saying much, but he's got a bad headache," he said. "And, uh…" He paused. "Remember how he had that weird seizure on the flight back from Georgia?"

"Yeah, it was a...a complex partial," JJ said.

"He had one."

"Oh my god," Garcia sighed.

Morgan shifted his weight. "When he got cleared from the hospital the doctor told me he might be susceptible to seizures," he said. "We've got to watch him pretty close. This one wasn't bad, but he might have more. And if they're bad enough, we might need to take him to the hospital."

"He'll hate that, but I agree," JJ said.

Reid shifted on the couch and Morgan paused, waiting to speak until he was sure that he was still asleep. "Who's coming in after me?" he asked.

"It's a toss up between Hotch and myself at the moment," Garcia said. "He's talking it over with Haley."

"Well, whoever comes in next needs to be prepared," Morgan said. "The kid has nothing in his apartment. Except books. He's got plenty of those. But that's it."

"Do _not_ worry, I am _on_ it, I've done lots of research, and whoever comes in next is going to be more than ready," Garcia said. "Our boy is in excellent hands."

"I trust you," he said. "Hopefully he does too."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, he's stubborn. Why can't he just let people help him??
> 
> This fic is a slow burn, but I hope you like it!!
> 
> Lots of love and thanks for the comments and kudos, and big thanks to Dayanna and expecto-weasleys for their help!!
> 
> And come visit me on tumblr if you'd like to chat too!!


	3. hotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer's defenses begin to crumble, and Hotch feels uncharacteristically helpless

Spencer opened his eyes and immediately regretted it.

The last time he was awake (an hour ago? a day ago?) he had a headache and he felt a little sore. Now he had a migraine digging into his right eye and sharp pains running through his muscles. He bit back a groan.

So this was withdrawal.

He had never gotten this far in the process. At this point- _long_ before this point- he would have given in and sought comfort from the little glass vial hidden under his sink. For a dizzying moment he contemplated going in search of it…

...but then he remembered. It was gone. It was all gone.

He didn't know if he should feel grateful, or angry, or upset, or...he couldn't feel anything correctly. Hadn't felt anything correctly in months, if he thought about it. His memories of the past few months had a haziness, a drug-induced sepia filter.

He wanted to feel like himself again. He just didn't remember what that was.

His headache pulsed behind his right eye like a heartbeat and he groaned audibly as he forced himself to sit up, his sheets and blankets tangling around his legs. Thirst pulled at his throat and dried his mouth, and it outweighed his desire to stay safe in his bed. Maybe Morgan was still asleep. Or better yet, had gone home.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked unsteadily towards the door, catching himself on his dresser. The horizon tilted and he waited, holding his breath, until the dizziness faded into a manageable gray fuzz at the edges of his vision. When he felt like he could take the risk of staying upright he opened the door and made his way into the living room.

"Morgan?" he called tentatively.

"Morgan went home."

Spencer's heart dropped. Morgan was gone. Hotch was in his living room.

He blinked, willing himself to wake up from whatever fever dream this was, but no such luck. His boss was in his living room, sitting on the couch, dressed down in an FBI Academy tee shirt and jeans, reading a Tom Clancy novel. "Oh, hey, Reid," Hotch said, glancing up from his book. He checked his watch. "You've been asleep for eleven hours, I was starting to wonder if I should check on you."

"I'm fine," he responded automatically. "What are you doing here?"

"Garcia made a schedule. It's my turn."

Embarrassed heat crawled at the back of his neck. "That's unnecessary," he said.

"How are you feeling?" Hotch asked. "You're well into your second day without taking-"

"I don't want to talk about it," Spencer snapped. The horizon tilted again and he braced his hand against the wall. "And I don't need any of you guys here."

"That's fine," Hotch said. He was so calm and Spencer wanted to shake him. "I'll be here today and tonight. Someone else will be here tomorrow. Even if you don't want help, there ought to be someone nearby in case you need us."

"Yeah, well...I'll call you if I need you," he said sharply. His mouth was so dry it was hard to speak, but his knees felt like jello and he wasn't sure he could make it all the way to the kitchen. Instead he fumbled his way the shorter distance down the hall to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

On instinct he reached for the cabinet door, but he paused, clenching into a loose fist. His heart beat too fast in his chest. It was gone, it was all gone, his safety net was _gone_ , and all he could do was stare at himself in the mirror with a painful clarity he hadn't felt since he knocked on Tobias Hankel's door.

Spencer touched a shaky hand to his face, his fingers drumming staccato on his jawline. His cheekbones had always been a little too high and a little too sharp, but now he was gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his skin pale and waxen. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, the hazel irises dull and cloudy, and the bruises underneath were mottled purple and and blue and green.

His heart pounded against his ribcage. The tee shirt he'd put on yesterday hung on him like a scarecrow's clothes, sliding on his shoulder and loose around his chest, his collarbone jutting sharply through his skin. Nausea clawed at the pit of his stomach and he pushed his hair back from his face. His whole hand was shaking now; he could almost hear the clattering of his bones, and the tremor spread to his shoulders.

His heart beat too fast. It was too fast, and his blood rushed in his veins, and the gray faded edges of his vision threatened to turn black. It was too fast, and he tried to slow down his breathing, tried to control it, but he couldn't control it-

_You're pitiful. Just like my son._

Spencer grabbed at his chest, his fingers pulling at his shirt, his breath catching in sharp strangled gasps.

_This ends now._

Spencer's knees buckled. He tried to catch himself against the edge of the sink but his shaking hands found no purchase. Instead he hit the floor hard, striking the back of his head against the wall with a solid _crack._

_Confess your sins._

His vision blurred. "I haven't done anything," he tried to say, but he couldn't hear himself. His heartbeat was a violin string, vibrating too fast, and the room swam around him as he slumped farther down against the wall. 

"Hotch," he screamed, but it didn't come out as a scream, it didn't even leave his parched throat, and no one could hear him, no one was coming for him, the midwinter wind blew through the cracks in the cabin walls and he was going to die here…

A broad gentle hand cupped the base of his neck. "You're not going to die here," a voice said, strong and sure, and Spencer closed his eyes. "I'm here. I'm right here."

His heart threatened to snap his ribs and tear out of his chest, taking on a life of its own outside his body. He slumped forward, his forehead pressing into his knees. "Take a breath," the voice said. "Just one slow breath."

He struggled to obey. "My heart," he gasped. "Hurts."

He wasn't sure if he'd managed to say the words aloud and correctly. "I know it hurts," the voice said gently. "Your heart's beating too fast. You need to slow your breathing down."

He was dying but he was alive, pinned to the floor, tasting blood against his teeth, his chest clenching tighter and tighter. He was in the cabin, he was home, Hankel was staring at him in disgust, Hotch was watching him with concern written all over his face.

"I'm gonna pass out," he mumbled, and his eyes slid shut.

At first he was only aware of the pain in his chest, squeezing and releasing, losing momentum with every beat of his exhausted heart. His eyes were dry and so heavy he couldn't open them, and his arms and legs didn't seem attached to him anymore.

"Slow, Reid. Slow."

He knew that voice, knew the firm hand holding his limp clammy fingers. He remembered.

_he was crouching in the cold red clay, feral and terrified, the blisters on his palms torn open and dripping, a flashlight catching in his eyes so that all he saw was a circle of white light, and Hotch knelt beside him, taking him by the arm and pulling him from his own grave back into safety, holding him around his waist and keeping him from falling._

"Hotch?" he mumbled.

Hotch held his hand, his thumb rubbing in gentle, grounding strokes. His other hand rested on his chest as if he was making sure he was still breathing, still alive. "Take it slow," he said again. "I don't want you passing out on me again."

Spencer shifted against the floor. Feeling was coming back to his disembodied limbs in little icy prickles, and he cracked his eyes open. He was lying on the hard tile floor of his bathroom, his head pounding and the floor cold against his exposed skin. Hotch sat beside him, one knee bent and the other stretched out, watching his face carefully.

"Hey," Hotch said. "That's better."

Spencer licked at his dry lips. "I passed out?" he rasped.

"You went down hard," Hotch said. "Tachychardia can happen with withdrawal, your-"

"My heart was beating too fast," he said.

"It's slowed down now," Hotch reassured him. He let go of Spencer's hand and leaned back. "Reid, this is why we wanted someone to stay with you. I understand you're self-reliant, and you value your privacy. But this isn't something you can fight safely on your own. You understand?"

Spencer rubbed at his mouth. He wanted to argue. He wanted to fight back. But his heart still shook in his chest like a terrified bird in a cage and his head throbbed and his stomach twisted and he was afraid to close his eyes for fear he would wake up chained to a chair in a long-forgotten cabin.

He sighed, and Hotch reached for him again, raking his hair back from his forehead. "Reid, you need to allow us to help you," he said.

Spencer tilted his head, looking up at the white lights overhead. He had never learned how to accept help. But then again...no one had ever offered before.

He closed his eyes. "My stomach hurts," he said quietly.

Hotch half smiled, and Spencer knew he understood. "Are you going to throw up?" he asked. "Because I'd really prefer you didn't vomit on my shoes again."

He sighed. "Not at the moment, I don't think," he said. "But...maybe later."

It was a little easier now. His heart felt steadier, like it was part of his body again, and the room had stopped spinning quite so fast, and the threat of the cabin and the graveyard felt farther and farther away with every breath he took. He almost felt a little foolish in the bright light.

"I think you should go back to bed," Hotch said, and it was definitely not a suggestion. "Do you think you can stand up?"

Spencer braced his palms against the floor and heaved himself up. Nausea pulled at his chest and he closed his eyes, and Hotch caught his shoulders. "Hey, hey, not so fast," he coached. "Take your time. There's no rush."

He breathed shallowly through his nose until his equilibrium evened back out. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay, I can get up."

Hotch helped him to his feet, holding him up by his upper arms, and waited until he found his balance again. "You think you can walk on your own?" he asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, thanks."

His legs wobbled under him, but he made it back to his bedroom on his volition, only catching himself on the walls once or twice. As soon as he reached his bed he collapsed, pulling himself back into his nest. He sank into the pillows with a heavy sigh.

"What do you need?" Hotch asked.

 _Nothing_ , he wanted to say. _I'm okay. This was a momentary lapse in judgement._

"Water?" he asked aloud.

"Sure."

Spencer shifted around, trying to make himself comfortable. Nothing made him feel better, but he felt safer somehow. His heart felt like his own again, no longer betraying him with a rapidfire beat, pumping blood at a safe and reassuring rate.

Hotch handed him a water bottle with a straw. Spencer drank eagerly, flooding his dry throat, quelling the fire that was beginning to burn under his skin. "Let me know if you get hungry," Hotch said. "Your kitchen's stocked with actual food."

Spencer's mouth tugged up in a half smile. "For once," he quipped.

Hotch didn't laugh. "Drink your water," he said. "And get some rest. Even if you don't sleep, just take it easy, okay?"

"Okay," Spencer echoed.

Hotch pried the empty water bottle in his hands. "I won't hover," he promised. "I'll be in the living room. Call me when you need me."

 _When,_ not _if._ "Okay," Spencer said again, a little quieter. Hotch smiled at him this time, before he walked out of the room and left the door half cracked, and Spencer pulled his sheets and blankets back around himself and picked up the book from his nightstand.

* * *

Hotch balanced his phone against his jaw. "So everything's fine?" he asked.

"Yes, Aaron, Jack's fine," Haley reassured him, her voice soft and crackly over the phone. "Ate all his carrots, had a bath, fell asleep halfway through the first story. Don't worry."

He smiled. "I can't help it," he said. "And you're doing okay?"

"Absolutely fine," she said. "And honestly, I'm glad you're over there. I'm not surprised Spencer's sick. I don't think I've ever seen him eat anything that wasn't covered in sugar, he probably has the immune system of a wet paper bag."

"Yeah," Hotch echoed. They'd agreed to not discuss the real nature of Reid's illness outside of their group; he'd told Haley that Reid had come down with a bad case of the flu and needed a little help. It wasn't a total lie, at least.

"Is he doing okay?" Haley asked.

"I got him to eat something, and he's resting now. Or at least he was the last time I looked in on him."

Haley clicked her tongue in sympathy. "I'm sure he's feeling awful. And right after the whole...Georgia thing. Poor thing can't catch a break, can he?"

"No, apparently he can't," Hotch said. He got up from the couch, listening to Haley talk, and peeked into Reid's room.

The kid had finally fallen asleep, his book open on the bed and his long slender fingers splayed out over the pages. His hair spread across the pillow in a tangled halo and his chest rose and fell just a little fast. Hotch frowned. Reid's face seemed flushed, bright spots of red rising on his cheeks.

He brushed Reid's hair back from his forehead. "Hey, babe," he interrupted gently. "He's running a fever. What's going to be the best thing for him?"

"Oh, same you would do for Jack, probably," Haley said. "Give him medicine to bring his fever down, put a cool cloth on his forehead, keep him hydrated. Maybe see if he's up for taking a bath or a shower."

He left the room quietly in hopes he didn't wake him. "He's not a toddler, Hay," he said.

"So?" she said. "He's, what...twenty-three? Twenty-four? He's young. He's probably still having a tough time with that whole kidnapping thing. And I'm guessing he doesn't have any family nearby, or a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend? I don't want to assume."

Hotch bit back a rueful smile. "You could be a profiler yourself," he said.

"Oh, shut up," she laughed. "I'd be a terrible FBI agent. All I'm saying, Aaron, that he probably feels incredibly shitty, and maybe a little lonely and homesick. Just...think about Jack being in his shoes."

He did. He thought of Jack lying in his bed, alone, fighting off a fever. He thought of Jack with track marks in his arms, too scared to tell him the truth and trying to take care of it himself. He thought of Jack handcuffed to a chair in an abandoned cabin, beaten within an inch of his life and begging for help that wasn't coming.

"Aaron? Are you still there?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I"m still here."

"Just be gentle with him, okay?" she said. "Maybe ask him what his parents did for him when he was sick as a kid. Make him feel a little more comfortable."

"I can do that," he said. "Thanks, Haley. I love you."

"Love you too, babe."

"Give Jack a goodnight hug and kiss for me."

"Already done, Agent Hotchner," she said, and he could hear the warm smile in her voice. "Night, babe."

He closed his phone and slid it back into his back pocket. Haley's perception left him a little unnerved. He forgot sometimes how young Reid was. And he was brilliant, but there were gaps here and there in his emotional maturity, highlighting the difference between his coworkers who were five, fifteen, twenty years older than he was.

_Just be gentle with him._

Hotch got another water bottle out of the fridge, then went into the bathroom and rummaged around in the medicine cabinet. There wasn't much there, but he found a bottle of ibuprofen. He dug around in the cabinet under the sink and found a washcloth; he ran it briefly under cold water and folded it into a neat rectangle.

At first he thought Reid was still asleep, but he realized that he was flexing his fingers, his face screwing up as if he was in pain and his legs twitching under the blankets. Hotch set everything down on the dresser. "Hey, Reid, what's going on?" he asked, his voice slipping into his accustomed patterns of _I am in charge._

"Hurts," Reid said through his teeth. "Everything hurts."

Hotch sat down next to him. "Yeah, Garcia said muscle pain can be a symptom of withdrawal," he said. "I've got ibuprofen and some water, let's see if that will help."

Reid struggled to sit up, his hand catching on the pages of his book and crumpling the edges. Hotch held him by the arm and moved his pillows behind his back to prop him up. "God, this sucks," Reid mumbled.

"Yeah, I imagine," Hotch said. He tipped three pills into Reid's palm. "Take those. And drink all the water."

Reid did so without arguing, popping the pills in his mouth and sipping at the water bottle, his eyes half-lidded. On one hand, Hotch was relieved that Reid was obeying. On the other, he wasn't used to Reid listening and following instructions without a fight, and it was unsettling.

"How's your stomach feeling?" he asked.

Reid shrugged. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna throw up at some point," he said unsteadily. "It's only a matter of time."

Hotch smiled. "Just give me warning, okay?" he said. He touched his hand to Reid's forehead, and his smile dropped. "You're burning up. Do you have a thermometer?" Reid shook his head, sipping apathetically at his water. "I'll have whoever's coming tomorrow bring one."

As soon as the water bottle was empty, Hotch tugged it out of his hands and picked up the cool damp washcloth. Reid wilted as he draped it carefully over his forehead. "That feels better," he said, his eyes sliding shut.

His arms were limp at his sides, and Hotch could see the track marks in the soft crook of his elbow, some of them faded pink and some of them still fresh and red. His heart sank. He'd wondered why Reid had started wearing long sleeved shirts buttoned tight at the wrist, instead of short sleeves or rolling the cuffs to his elbows. Never in a million years would he have expected what he was hiding.

He pressed his fingers to Reid's inner wrist, feeling his veins jumping. His pulse was still a little too fast, but not as terrifyingly rapid as it was earlier. At least if Reid passed out now, he'd be safe in his own bed.

He had heard the crash of Reid falling to the floor from his spot in the living room, and he'd gotten up and crept up to the door, holding his breath, torn between breaking in or waiting it out. Maybe he was fine, maybe he had dropped something, maybe he'd be even more upset if he tried to interfere…

"I haven't done anything," he had heard him whimper through the door, and then softer, scared, strangled- " _Hotch_."

He had wrestled the door open then, and found him crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath, his whole body shaking with the erratic beat of his heart, and all he could see was Reid lying dead on the cabin floor in a grainy livestream feed, Reid crouching in a graveyard with wild eyes that didn't see him. He had been the first to reach him that night, pulling him tight into his arms, shielding him from the sight of the open grave and Tobias Hankel's wide open eyes.

Now Reid was safe, but he wasn't out of the woods yet.

"How are you feeling?" Hotch asked. "Scale of one to ten."

Reid sighed, slow and sleepy. "Actually, in a recent survey fifty-nine percent of people diagnosed with arthritis said that that kind of scale is inefficient because pain is subjective," he said, his eyes still closed.

Hotch smiled. "On a Spencer Reid scale," he said. "And be honest."

Reid's mouth drooped. "Seven," he said. "Maybe eight."

That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.

He thought back to his conversation with Haley, and for a moment he wished she was there instead. She was a good mom. That's probably what Reid needed. A parent. Someone could shoulder his burdens for a little while.

"How can I help?" Hotch asked. "What did your parents do when you were a kid?"

Reid was very quiet for a moment, and slowly his eyes opened, staring blankly at the ceiling. "When I was ten," he said, and Hotch felt his pulse jump under his hand. "I...there were these...these older kids, the popular kids, and they...they tricked me."

He spoke slowly, stumbling over his words, and Hotch wondered if he'd be telling him this story if he didn't have such a high fever. "They tied me to the goalpost, on the football field," he said. "I was...they took my clothes, and they tied me there, and they left me there to burn."

Hotch thought of Jack, small and vulnerable, and he squeezed Reid's wrist a little too tightly.

Reid swallowed hard. "It was so hot," he said. "Hot, like it is now, and I...the sun burned me, all over, and I walked home in the dark, and my mother…" His chest heaved. "She didn't notice. She didn't know I was missing. I could have...I could have been out there for days and no one would have looked for me."

Somehow, Hotch got the feeling that Reid had never told his mother about what happened in Georgia.

Reid struggled to sit upright, the damp washcloth slipping to fall in his lap. "And my dad, my dad just...didn't care," he said. "He didn't. My mom asked…" His head tilted unsteadily. "'You can take Spencer, at least for a little while.' And he...he didn't. He didn't want me. Anymore."

Hotch hesitated. He knew what that was like. But his words stuck in his throat.

Reid pulled at the loose neckline of his tee shirt as if it was strangling him. "His mother didn't want him either," he said. His eyes were too bright, and his words spilled out in an uneven ramble. "His mother left and his father, his father beat him, and he...that's all he wanted, in the end."

"What did he want?" Hotch asked. "Who are you talking about?"

"Do you think I'll see my mom again?" Reid said, soft and plaintive.

"Of course you will," Hotch reassured him. "You'll see your mom again soon. Once you're better. You can take more time off, fly to Vegas. As long as you need."

Reid's chest heaved and his pulse skipped under Hotch's hand. "He just wanted to see his mom again," he said, and his eyes clouded over, and he kept pulling at his shirt.

"Reid, talk to me," Hotch said, raising his voice. "Reid?"

But Reid was gone, lost in his own private misery, a rhythmic whimper breaking from his vocal cords, and his hand trembled in Hotch's gentle grip.

He'd watched him seize on the livestream, watched him seize on the emergency room floor, watched him seize on the flight home. He had hoped that the seizures would fade away as he recovered. But he was realizing now...Reid never recovered.

And Garcia had done the research. Some dilaudid users in withdrawal experienced seizures during the process. And for a kid who'd undergone cardiac arrest, a concussion that went days untreated, ignored psychological trauma, and months of constant drug abuse...well, it made sense.

He checked his watch, timing the seizure. Morgan had said the one he had the day before wasn't too intense and didn't too long. And sure enough, after a while Reid's hand began to still in his loose protective grip, and he started to blink, and his breathing evened out.

"Hey, buddy," Hotch said gently. "You all right?" Reid murmured something indistinct, his hand wandering from the neckline of his shirt to touch his forehead in visible confusion. "Hey, hey, don't worry about it. Lie down. Get some sleep."

He tugged the blankets back and Reid laid himself down, cautious and shaking, as Hotch readjusted the pillows underneath him. "Did...did I have a seizure?" Reid asked, his voice thick.

"You did," Hotch said quietly. "But you're okay. You're safe."

Reid exhaled like the weight of the world was crushing him, and maybe it was. He rolled onto his side, like he always slept on the jet during a long flight. Hotch pulled the sheets and blankets up around his shoulders and Reid hugged them to his chest. Thankfully he gave in without a fight, his mouth falling a little open in sleep. Hotch brushed his hair back from his hot forehead.

He didn't go back to the living room. He dragged a chair into the room instead and settled in his with his book, watching Spencer sleep in the warm light of the bedside lamp until the sun began to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the feelings.
> 
> I've been writing a lot of dad!Hotch for Patron Saint of Lost Causes, and it kind of spilled over into this. But I don't mind! Spencer needs parental figures in his life, especially during this.
> 
> Thank you so much for commenting and kudos-ing!! And lots of love to expecto-weasleys and Dayanna for helping me with this fic.
> 
> My tumblr is themetaphorgirl if you'd like to chat!!
> 
> On a kind of related note, somebody on AO3 basically took the exact same outline and structure as this fic and wrote their own version?? Including a bit of dialogue that's a response to a passage that I wrote?? And it just made me feel very weird and uncomfortable and sad. It's not outright plagiarism, but man. It bummed me out SO much. I could use a bit of a little pep talk, if you have the time to leave a comment or come chat with me on tumblr.
> 
> But most importantly!! I appreciate y'all so much for reading and commenting and sticking around for this long saga. Y'all are helping me get through quarantine and really rekindling my joy for writing, so thank you so much!!


	4. JJ

JJ tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, slung too tight over her shoulder. She was a mature adult, she was more than capable of handling this situation.

"So how is he right now?" she asked, trying not to stare at her new surroundings. She'd never been inside Spencer's apartment before.

Hotch sighed. "I think the technical term is _shitting his brains out_ ," he said dryly.

JJ winced. "That bad?"

"He's miserable," Hotch said. "Started early this morning."

"Is that his only symptom?" JJ asked.

Hotch shook his head. Her boss seemed younger than she had ever seen him before, his Academy tee shirt rumpled and his hair sticking up in the back, but he seemed exhausted and stressed at the same time, dark circles ringing his eyes and his jaw covered in stubble. "You got a thermometer, right?" he asked.

She held up the Walgreens bag. "Picked on up this morning," she said.

"He spiked a fever last night, he's still pretty warm last time he let me check," Hotch said. "And the muscle pains have been pretty intense."

JJ nodded. "I'll keep an eye out for that, then," she said. Hotch glanced away, his arms crossed over his chest. "Okay, wait. What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You did that little...look thing," she said. "What are you not telling me?"

Hotch hesitated. "He had a seizure," he said, his voice falling even quieter. "The same kind he had on the plane coming home from Georgia. A complex partial."

Her heart dropped. "Are you sure?" she said. "Maybe it was...it was something else."

"I'm sure," he said. "It didn't last very long. He was lucid and he could speak to me afterwards, and he went right to sleep."

"So I should watch for seizures too, then?"

"If it's another mild one, just monitor him," Hotch said. "Track how long it lasts, that's the most important thing. If it's more severe, call Garcia. Someone will come and help if you need it."

She nodded. She had never felt more like a lost kid in her life.

"Do you think we should take him to a hospital?" she asked. "Put him a rehab program?"

Hotch shrugged. "If we put him a rehab program, that could jeopardize his position with the team," he said. "He could be suspended or demoted. Or possibly fired. It's best that we keep this within the team. But if you think he's in danger, then yes. Take him to the hospital. I trust your judgement."

She nodded. She didn't agree, but she couldn't tell Hotch that.

"Do you think you have it from here?" he asked. "I can stick around for a while if you need me to."

"No, no, I'll be fine," she lied. "And Spencer will be fine."

"Just keep Garcia updated, she's keeping the rest of us in the loop," Hotch said. "There's plenty of food in the kitchen, although I imagine he's going to give you a lot of pushback on eating. He at least needs to stay hydrated."

"Yeah, I can handle that," she said.

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "You'll be great, JJ," he said. "And he'll be fine. We're going to get him through this, whether he likes it or not."

"Yeah," she echoed. "Thanks, Hotch. Tell Haley and the baby I say hi."

He grinned and squeezed her upper arm lightly, then picked up his bag and left.

She stood alone in the middle of Spencer's apartment and allowed herself to look around. Funny, it was exactly what she had imagined. Old fashioned, just the tiniest bit helter-skelter along the edges, virtually no technology. And books, books everywhere, in every language.

She set her bags down on the door and crossed to the kitchen, her sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floors, and poked around aimlessly in the kitchen. The fridge and pantry were stocked; she and Emily had helped Garcia place a grocery order while Morgan was staying with him. He'd said the kitchen was almost completely empty, and that had been something she'd imagined too. Spencer had told her he wasn't much of a cook, he didn't have the time or the interest for it, and with him being gone on cases all the time it was just a waste to keep anything around.

She liked cooking, though. She only cooked on her days off, but she enjoyed the act, pouring herself a glass of wine and making herself something she liked and enjoying it at her leisure, instead of hastily shoveling takeout down her throat when she had five minutes to spare.

She wandered into the living room. There were no personal knickknacks anywhere, just more books, a shelf of VHS tapes, and a TV that had probably been a top of the line model in the mid-90s. There weren't even any family photos, and somehow that made her inexplicably sad. Maybe he didn't have any memories happy enough to hang up on the wall.

The bathroom door creaked open and she turned around. "Hey, you," she said, but her smile faded almost immediately.

Spencer looked awful. Not that he'd been looking particularly well over the past few months, but the illness he'd been hiding was now written all over him, clear as day. He'd been hiding his weight loss in layers of sweaters and scarves; now she could see the way his thin tee shirt hung on his body. His facial features had always been delicate, his mouth a little too wide for his pretty face, but now his cheekbones were razor sharp and his face gaunt.

He blinked at her in surprise. "JJ?" he said. "When did you get here?"

"Not too long ago, maybe half an hour," she said.

"I didn't know Hotch left," he said, almost to himself, and his thin shoulders drooped.

"How are you feeling?" she asked tentatively. "Hotch said you...weren't feeling great."

"Oh, really?" Spencer said, bracing his hand against the wall. "What'd he tell you?"

"I believe 'shitting your brains out' was his exact terminology," she said, and unexpectedly Spencer laughed.

"Yeah, he's not wrong," he said. "Did Hotch actually say that?"

"Oh, absolutely, and it was as weird to hear it in person as you're thinking," she said. He grinned, but he was wavering on his feet, his hand splayed out against the wall to keep himself upright. "Are you still running a fever? I picked up a thermometer."

He gingerly touched the back of his hand to his cheek. "Maybe, I'm not sure," he said.

"Sit down for a second, I'll check it," she said. She picked apart the plastic casing over the digital thermometer and pressed the buttons to get it going. Spencer had made it to his couch, sprawled out on the cushions and leaning on the armrest. "You okay?"

"Walking makes me seasick," he mumbled.

He wasn't acting like himself at all, and it made her nervous; he sounded unsteady when spoke, almost like he wasn't sure of what he was saying. "All right, open your mouth," she said. He obeyed and she tucked it under his tongue. His eyes shifted half-closed, and his hair hung over his face.

The thermometer beeped and he let her pull it from his mouth. "A hundred and one point eight," she said. She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. "Yeah, that's not a whole lot of fun."

He closed his eyes. "What do you mean? I'm having a great time," he said.

"When's the last time you had something to eat?" she asked. "I know you're probably not super hungry right now, but you need to keep something in your system."

He sighed. "Hotch made me eat some scrambled eggs yesterday," he said. "I hate scrambled eggs."

"I'll make you something," she promised. "How about you take a shower while I cook?"

"I guess," he said warily. "You're going to tell me I'll feel better once I eat and have a shower, aren't you?"

"Pretty much," she said. "Go on. Take your time. Call me if you need me."

He pushed himself up slowly; she took a step back to give him space. "I'll be fine," he said, but she wondered if that just for her benefit. He shuffled away, half hunched over, his hand pressed to his stomach.

She went back to the kitchen and dug around in the cabinets for the largest pan she could fine. There wasn't much in the way of gadgets and dishes, but as long as she had a decent knife and some kind of dish that could go into the oven, she could make do.

She had planned ahead for this when Garcia asked her opinion on the grocery order, so all the ingredients were waiting for her. Spencer could probably do with something that wasn't takeout or bought out of a vending machine for once.

For as long as she could remember, her mom had made poppyseed chicken when somebody in the family had a bad day, or if school was closed for snow, or if someone was home sick. Her mom stopped making it after her sister died, so she'd taken it upon herself to learn how to make it. She still made it for herself every now and again, usually after a particularly bad case, and she'd always thought she'd make it for her kids, if she ever had any. Now seemed like a good time to make it for Spencer.

Falling into the easy patterns of cooking helped ease some of the stress pulling at her shoulders. This was something tangible she could to help, something she could see and feel and know that she was doing _something_ of value.

Once it was in the oven, though, all she could do was wait. She settled for washing dishes and putting the kitchen back to rights, but even that didn't take up enough time. The shower was still running; hopefully it would help Spencer feel at least a little bit better.

She wandered towards Spencer's bedroom and hovered in the doorway, unable to shake the feeling that she was intruding. Even his bedroom was spare and impersonal- no photos and old-fashioned heavy furniture, every surface covered in books.

The bed was in a state of disarray, pillows tossed around and the tangled covers dragging on the floor, a silent testament to Spencer's insomnia. This was something she could do, something she could fix. She pulled the covers off the bed, stacking the pillows on the bare mattress, and carried them into the kitchen. There was a small stacked washer and dryer unit hidden in a cabinet; she pulled the slatted door open and dropped the blankets and sheets inside. She poured the detergent into the drum and switched it on, the washer whirring to life.

By then the oven was beeping, so she pulled the glass dish out of the oven and switched it off. Now there really wasn't anything to do.

She wandered aimlessly into the living room and sank down on the couch. The shower wasn't running anymore, maybe Spencer was done.

She toed off her shoes and curled her legs up, her fingers running absently through her long blonde ponytail. There was no reason to be this anxious, she was just keeping an eye on Spencer while he wasn't feeling well. That was it. She didn't need to think too far into it. She would just keep an eye on him, and in the morning it would be somebody else's turn, and before long he'd be back at work as if nothing had ever happened.

Spencer padded into the living room, his steps slow and heavy. "Hi," she said. "How do you feel after your shower?"

"You know, some of it is psychological, but hot showers can help with muscle tension and anxiety, and cold showers can improve immunity and make you more alert," he said, running his hand through his wet hair.

"So what did you pick, hot or cold?" she asked.

He sank down on the couch like gravity was pulling him down too fast. "Hot," he said. "Not sure if it helped."

There was an unwritten rule on the team to avoid profiling each other, but she figured that rule could be thrown out the window at a time like this. His pale face had regained a little color after his shower, but he was folding himself inward, making himself smaller. He'd changed into clean pajamas, a thin light blue tee shirt and striped flannel pants, and his wet hair was combed straight and dripped along his shoulders.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah," he said. "Whatever you made, it smells good."

She leaned forward and squeezed his knee before getting up from the couch. "I'll get you some," she said. "Do you want to watch something? Whatever you want."

"I don't have a lot of options, so I hope you like media with titles that begin with 'star'," he said.

She laughed. "I can handle it," she said.

* * *

Spencer leaned his head against the side of the couch, the leather cool against his hot cheek, his mostly-empty bowl propped up against his side. Whatever JJ had made was good, the first food in weeks that didn't turn to sawdust in his mouth, but he couldn't eat anything else.

At this point, JJ was paying more attention to the episode of Star Trek than he was. His muscles ached, cramps flexing under his skin, and he was freezing. He crossed his arms over his chest, huddling into a small ball to stay warm.

JJ lifted her head. "You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, his jaw threatening to snap and chatter. There was no way he could be this cold. He burrowed tighter into himself, drawing his knees up to his chest like a child.

Something soft fell around him; he looked up to see JJ dropping a blanket around him. "I'm glad I brought this," she said, tucking it around him securely. "Are you still hungry? I can get you some more."

He shook his head. "Thanks, though," he said quietly. She took his bowl with a smile and touched his knee lightly before disappeared into the kitchen.

The blanket helped. He drew it all the way up to his chin, allowing his teeth to chatter with cold while he had a second alone, burying himself in the soft fabric and hoping it would warm him up. _Breathe slow_ , he scolded himself. _Don't get worked up._

He didn't realize JJ was there until she brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. "You're still really warm," she said. "I'm going to check your temperature again, okay?"

"Okay," he mumbled. He adjusted the blanket over his shoulders, and when she slipped the thermometer into his mouth he didn't fight back. She kept stroking his hair while she watched the numbers tick, and he closed his eyes.

When it beeped she pulled it from his lips and hummed in disappointment. "Your fever went up," she said. "You're at a hundred and two point four." He sighed. "When's the last time you took ibuprofen?"

He closed his eyes. He couldn't remember exactly, and he hated it. "It was a while ago," he said. "I can take more."

He didn't want ibuprofen. He wanted to feel nothing, just pleasant warm bliss sinking his veins and pulling him back up out of this. He didn't want to call it a craving, but it was, he craved it, wanted to fall into it again and sleep for days.

JJ handed him a couple of small dark red pills and a bottle of neon blue sports drink, and it was enough to shake him out of his reverie, at least for the moment. He shook the pills into his mouth, but his hand couldn't grip the bottle's cap. JJ silently cracked it open for him and he took a long drink, sugar and electrolytes dripping down his throat.

"You should probably drink all of that," she said. "You need to stay hydrated. I'll get you some water too."

"This is fine for right now," he said.

JJ sat down in the armchair across from him. He'd gotten so used to seeing her as their polished media liaison that it was almost bizarre to see her like this, comfortable in her tank top and leggings. "So what's going on in this episode?" she asked. "I'm kind of confused."

He understood the tactic. She was trying to distract him, give him something to fixate on that wasn't his fever or the soreness of his muscles or the hunger in his blood.

"This is in the middle of the third season, that's probably why you're confused," he said.

"I don't even know which character is which."

He followed along with her ruse, talking through the characters and the setting, wandering into the technology and the history of the show. JJ nodded and offered little noises of agreement, actively listening as she let him ramble. A few days ago he would have bristled at someone attempting this kind of trick, but he didn't feel like fighting. He was so tired of fighting.

"Spence?"

He blinked. "Hm?"

JJ was sitting up, watching him intensely. "Are you all right?" she asked. "You faded out for a second there."

 _Seizure_ , he thought at first, terror heating in his chest, but no, it didn't feel like the aftermath of an absence or a partial complex. "Just a second?" he asked aloud.

"Yeah," she said. "Are you feeling okay?"

Nausea twisted in the pit of his stomach. Not a seizure, but his body was stretched too tight, threatening to snap. "Yeah," he said faintly. "I'm okay."

JJ said something that turned to a roar in his ears. Saliva bubbled at the back of his jaws, and this time the nausea struck him like he'd been punched. He got up too fast, the room spinning, and he tore the blanket away.

"Spence?"

He stumbled to the bathroom and his knees hit the tiled floor hard. His cold uncoordinated hands scrambled to force up the toilet lid and his chin struck the cold edge before he started to throw up.

His vision went hazy, obscured in dark green fog. He didn't try to hide or stay silent, it didn't matter anymore, he huddled on the bathroom floor coughing and choking, acid burning his throat from the inside out.

Cool hands swept his hair out of his eyes. JJ said something that must have been soothing but it came out garbled and underwater. He didn't have much in his system but he kept heaving in big chest-rattling retches.

JJ's hand moved to his back, rubbing firm circles between his shoulderblades. Gradually his stomach stopped constricting and his retching began to slow. JJ kept one hand holding his hair back and the other on his back, and she stayed like that until he finally leaned back, his eyes waterting.

"You think you got it all out of your system?" she asked, but the sound bounced and echoed and made his ears ache. He nodded, leaning back against the wall. JJ got up from the floor and quietly moved around as he pressed his forehead against his bent knees, trying to balance out his equilibrium again.

JJ knelt beside him and tipped his chin back, wiping at his mouth with a cool damp washcloth. "That was pretty rough," she said. "Maybe that'll help you feel better, hm?"

He shrugged. His body didn't feel like his own anymore, like someone had pulled his arms and legs from the sockets and left them to dangle. And his heart was speeding up again, skipping and stopping and starting.

"I don't feel good," he said, his tongue thick.

"Yeah, I know," JJ said softly. She brushed lightly at the tear tracks on his cheeks. "Do you want to go lie down? Your sheets are in the dryer, I can get your bed made up again."

He couldn't answer her, and instead she hoisted him up to his feet. His knees buckled, threatening to drop him to the floor as she helped him towards his bedroom. All he could hear was the thump and skid of his heartbeat in his ears, too fast, way too fast.

"You should probably rest," JJ was saying. "Hopefully your stomach will settle down after you get some sleep."

"It's too fast," he whispered, and she took a step back. His heart drummed, the sound swelling and swallowing him up.

"Spence, I can't hear you, you're mumbling," she said. "What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."

He clutched at his chest, trying to keep his heart from beating through the skin and bursting into his hands. "Too fast," he said, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

* * *

Spencer crumpled to the floor and she screamed, startled, trying to hold him up but she wasn't fast enough. He fell hard, slumping forward, sprawled across the floor.

"Spence?" she called, her heart thumping. She slid an arm under his collarbone, bracing his shoulders, and pressed against his hip to turn him onto his side. He was breathing, shallow and too fast, but that was better than nothing.

"Spence, hey, wake up," she coaxed, patting his cheek. "You're okay. Can you open your eyes for me?"

He stayed unresponsive, his lips slack and his eyes closed, and when she reached for him again his body locked up tight.

JJ scrambled for her phone, her mouth going dry, and her thumb shook as she punched the speed dial. "You're gonna be okay, Spence, I promise," she whispered, reaching for his hand, but his long slender fingers stiffened into claws and his throat constricted.

"Hello, my angel, how's-"

"Garcia, he's having a seizure," she blurted out.

She could hear the sharp rustle on the other end, Garcia dropping everything to focus. "Okay, okay, how long?" she demanded.

"It's about to start, he was throwing up and then he said his heart was beating too fast and he collapsed," JJ said. She rested her hand over his heart, watching his pulse beat in the hollow of his throat.

"All right, Jayje, don't worry, somebody's coming over right now, just make sure the door is unlocked."

She took a second to obey, not tearing her eyes away from the limp figure on the floor. "What should I do?" she asked.

"Make sure the area's clear around him, um...see if you can put something under his head. Other than...just watch him, okay? I'll time it. Tell me when it starts and when it stops, and if it goes a second past four minutes I'll call an ambulance. Okay?"

"Okay," she whispered. She pulled the blanket off the couch and wadded it up into a makeshift pillow, tucking it under Spencer's head and neck.

"He's gonna be fine, JJ," Garcia said. "And you are too."

Spencer's back curved and he cried out. JJ sat as close to him as she safely could, too afraid to touch him. "It's starting," she said.

She held the phone in her lap, gripped tight with both hands, and all she could do was watch him. The muscles in his neck strained and jumped; shockwaves shook through him and rhythmic noises rattled from his throat. JJ clasped her phone until her knuckles turned white.

An eternity passed before he started to still, his cries beginning to quiet. The phone slipped in her hand. "I think it's over," she rasped.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, he's...he's stopped moving," she said. "How long was that?"

"Just a tiny bit over three minutes. He's doing great. But I can still call an ambulance if you think he needs to go to a hospital."

JJ searched his face anxiously, but she couldn't tell if he was in distress. "I don't think so," she said.

"Okay, well, he'll need to go if he has another major seizure," Garcia said. "Is he okay? Is he conscious?"

"Not yet."

"Well, I'm going to stay on the phone with you until backup arrives," Garcia said firmly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said.

Her eyes welled up. She wasn't fine. She was sitting on the floor next to an unconscious Spencer, watching him breathe, hoping he would open his eyes, too afraid to touch him.

"Okay, well, you don't have to talk," Garcia said. "I'll just sit here, and you let me know if something happens, all right?"

"All right," she echoed.

She sat in silence, the phone slipping from her hand, watching Spencer breathe, until a gentle hand rested on her shoulder and she nearly jumped out of her skin. "Hey, Jayje," Morgan said gently. "It's just me."

Relief flooded through her. "I didn't hear you come in," she said.

Morgan sat down on the floor beside her and took the phone out of her hand. "Hey, baby girl, I'm here," he said. "Yeah, JJ's okay too."

JJ turned her attention back to Spencer. His breathing was deep and easy now, as if he was asleep, and when she pressed her palm to his chest his heartbeat seemed steady. She ran her hand up and down his upper arm.

"Yeah, I'll keep you updated," Morgan said. "Yeah. Love you too." He closed the phone and handed it back to JJ. "How's he doing?"

"He hasn't woken up since his seizure, but he seems a little better," she said.

"What about before?"

She shrugged. "I got him to eat and take something to bring his fever down, but he couldn't keep it down," she said.

Morgan brushed his broad hand over Spencer's hair. "How bad was the seizure?" he asked quietly.

She sighed. "Not as bad as the one on the livestream," she said. "Worse than the one he had on the emergency room floor." She hugged her knees to her chest like a child. "Do you think this is permanent?"

"Could be," he said. "But Garcia said seizures could happen during withdrawal. Maybe they'll go away once he gets clean."

She rubbed at her eyes. "I'm going to go put his sheets back on his bed, they're in the dryer," she said.

Morgan caught her elbow before he could get up. "I'll take care of it," he said. "You stay with him."

She bit her lip and unfolded her legs. Carefully she stroked his hair away from his eyes, and she drew her hand back sharply when she saw his lashes start to shift. "Hey," she said. "Hey, Spence, are you waking up?"

He exhaled, slow and shaky, and his eyes half opened. "You're okay," she said, placing her hand on his side. "You're okay, Spence. Do you remember what happened?"

"Mm-hm," he said, confused. His fingers flexed a little, but he didn't try to move.

This wasn't Spencer. Spencer was articulate, too articulate, always talking, his voice pitching upwards as he got excited and spoke too fast. _This wasn't her Spencer._

And then he scrunched up his face, and it was such a familiar little quirk that her eyes unexpectedly welled up. "M'head hurts," he said, his voice thick.

"Yeah, that makes sense," she said. She squeezed his shoulder. "Does anything else hurt? Anything else bothering you?"

"Tired," he mumbled.

Morgan walked out of Spencer's room. "Hey, pretty boy, you awake?" he said, grinning.

Spencer blinked. "When...when did Morgan get here?" he slurred. He started to push himself up. "JJ, are you leaving?"

"No, no, I'm not going anywhere," she reassured him. He swayed, unable to keep his balance, and she braced his back to keep him from slumping back.

"Not so fast, Reid," Morgan said. "You've had a rough time. You want to go to bed?"

He nodded, still trying to stand up on his own, but Morgan caught him under his arms and hoisted him to his feet. JJ slipped in behind him, pressing her hand to the small of his back. But truthfully Morgan was doing all the work, half-carrying him, just letting him think he was bearing his own weight.

Spencer collapsed into his bed, his head sinking into the pillows, and Morgan shifted him around so he could lie down properly. "All right, pretty boy," he said. "That better?" He made a noncommittal noise into his pillow. "Yeah, I think that's enough exertion for right now."

JJ tightened her ponytail. "You should probably get some rest," she said. "I can-"

Spencer pushed himself up on his elbow. "You're not leaving, right?" he said, his voice wavering.

Morgan gave JJ a gentle push. "Nobody's leaving you, pretty boy," he said. "You want JJ to sit with you?" He nodded. "All right, JJ can sit with you. I'm going to get you some water." He touched the back of his hand to Spencer's hollow cheek. "When's the last time you checked his temperature?"

"A while ago," she said. "About an hour before…" She shrugged. Somehow she didn't want to say it out loud. "I left the thermometer on the kitchen counter."

"Give me a second, then, I'll be right back."

Spencer shifted on the bed, trying to get comfortable. She gingerly sat down beside him, and to her surprise he gravitated towards her, falling across her lap like a sleepy child. "Hey," she said softly, drawing her fingers through his hair. "What're you thinking?"

He blinked slowly. "Nothing," he said.

That hurt. That hurt more than she expected. Spencer never stopped thinking, never stopped moving. Seeing him still and quiet made her heart squeeze in her chest. He nestled closer, as if he needed to anchor himself to her, and she wrapped her arms around him.

Morgan walked in with a bottle of water and the thermometer. Spencer didn't move, just blinked sluggishly as Morgan checked his temperature. "What was it last time?" he asked.

"Hundred and two something."

Morgan frowned. "He's a hundred and three even," he said. "We've got to try to get that down." He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Hey, pretty boy. We need to get some medicine and some water in you, see if you can keep that down and make you feel better."

He looked up at Morgan. "I don't want it," he said in a small voice.

"You need it, though," JJ said. "The ibuprofen will help bring your fever down, and you need to stay hydrated."

"It's gonna help," Morgan said. "Can you sit up?"

Instead, Spencer quietly held out his right arm towards him, his soft brown eyes glazed over, as if he wasn't seeing Morgan correctly. The last remnants of track mark scars dotted his pale skin.

JJ's blood ran cold. "Spence, what are you doing?" she whispered.

He sighed. "Tell me it doesn't help," he said, and his cadence was unfamiliar, as if he was quoting something they'd never heard before.

Morgan took Spencer's hand; his other palm covered the scars hidden in the crook of his elbow. "We're not doing that anymore," he said. "You're not gonna use the dilaudid. And we're not gonna stand by and not say anything. Okay? No more."

Spencer pulled his arm back from Morgan's gentle grip. He took the pills without a fuss and sipped enough of the water to satisfy them, but when Morgan tried to urge him drink more he pushed the bottle away and dropped his head back on JJ's lap.

"I hate seeing him like this," she said softly.

"Yeah, Hotch said he was rambling a lot yesterday," Morgan said. "Something between the fever and the withdrawal, he's just not himself."

"I didn't think it would be this bad."

Morgan capped the bottle and set it aside on Spencer's nightstand. "He's a lot worse than he was the first day, and I thought that wasn't great," he admitted.

JJ stroked his hair back from his hot forehead; if he wasn't asleep already, he was right on the edge. "Do you think he'll be okay after this?" she asked.

"Depends on what you mean by okay," he said. "If you mean that he's functioning on his own, then yeah. The kid's stubborn as fuck. He'll get through it. But if you mean okay, as in back to who he was before all this happened...I don't think that's possible."

JJ bit her lip, digging her teeth hard enough to taste blood. "It's my fault," she whispered. "None of this would have happened if-"

"If you hadn't split up at the Hankel place?"

Her vision blurred.

"Jayje, you don't know that," Morgan said. "For all you know, Hankel could have knocked you out and taken Reid anyway. Or killed you, or killed you both."

"So?" she said bitterly.

Morgan tilted his head. "So us finding you in the barn meant that you could give us information," he said. "You gave us a head start to finding him. And you didn't exactly get out unscathed."

She half laughed. "Oh, yeah, my crippling phobia of dogs is the same as what Spence went through," she said.

"JJ," he said. "You have to let go of this. It wasn't your fault that you two split up. You said it yourself, he took off running before you could stop him. Reid does that, he gets an idea and he gets impulsive, and he's so busy calculating the odds of success that he doesn't stop to think what would happen if he lost."

She rubbed at her eye with the heel of her palm. "You blamed me," she said. It was a low blow, and she knew it, and she didn't care. "The whole time we were there, trying to find him, you...you wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't even look at me. You blamed me."

Morgan sighed. "I was mad, and I took it out on you," he said. "I shouldn't have done that, and I'm sorry." He squeezed her arm. "Jayje, I was scared too. We were all scared that we weren't going to find him. But we did."

"We only found him because he outsmarted Hankel and got through to us," JJ said.

"Yeah, that's true," Morgan said. "And that makes me pretty sure that if Spencer can get through that, he can get through this. Right?"

She nodded, wiping at a stubborn stray tear that rolled down her cheek. "And I'm gonna tell you something that I'm sure has been rolling around in your mind for the past couple of months," he said. "Spencer doesn't blame you either."

She froze. "I haven't-"

"Yeah, you haven't said it, but I can tell you've been thinking it," Morgan said. "Spencer doesn't blame you, for any of this."

She tilted her head up to look at the ceiling, letting out a shaky exhale as she tried to rein her emotions back into check. "God, I wish I could just...go back and change this," she said.

"Yeah, I know," he said. "But all we can do is move forward, and keep a better eye on the kid. Think you can do that?"

She nodded. Morgan leaned over and rubbed Spencer's back lightly. "Hey, pretty boy," he said. Spencer roused, raising his head just a little. "I'm going to head home. But JJ's staying here with you. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Spencer said sleepily.

Morgan patted JJ's back. "You call me if you need me, okay?" he said. "I don't care what time it is, I'll come right over."

"Thanks, Derek," she said. "Can you turn the lights off on your way out?"

Morgan smiled at her. "Yeah, I got it," he said. "I'll lock up too, don't worry. Stay with the kid."

She shifted around, getting comfortable as the room fell dark, and pulled the sheets and blankets up. Spencer burrowed into her, his head falling to her shoulder. He mumbled something.

"Go back to sleep," she said, rubbing his back.

"I heard you and Morgan talking," he said softly. "He's right. I don't...I don't blame you at all. It's not your fault."

"I could have done something," she said. "Anything. I-"

"I didn't know you thought it was your fault," he said. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," she said. She rested her cheek against the top of his head. "You just focus on getting better, okay?"

He was silent for a moment. "What if I don't deserve to get better?" he asked.

She wrapped her arms around him, the heat of his fever bleeding into her skin, and kissed the top of his head. "You do deserve to get better," she said fiercely. "It doesn't matter what happened. We're going to get you through this, okay? You're going to get better."

He didn't say anything. He clung to her as if he was drowning and she was a lifeline. She couldn't think of anything to say that could possibly be comforting, and instead she held him close, as tightly as she could, until he fell asleep in her arms, and when she was sure he was asleep she let herself cry, her cheek pressed to the top of his head and her hand over his heart, making sure it was still beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S TECHNICALLY STILL MONDAY SO I MADE IT.
> 
> this was going to be a short chapter. it's over 6,000 words.
> 
> I'm exhausted.
> 
> please send some good vibes, ya girl would appreciate it so much
> 
> thank you for reading!! the next chapter should be happier!!


	5. garcia

Garcia knocked once and waited, somewhat patiently. She knocked again, but this time she didn't wait. Instead she rummaged in her bag for her jumbled keyring. Was it mildly unethical to make copies of Reid's apartment key without his knowledge? Potentially. Was it incredibly helpful in the current situation? She certainly thought so.

She let herself inside and set her bag down by the front door, next to JJ's shoes. The apartment was silent, eerily silent. _I really hope he's asleep,_ she thought.

She didn't see JJ, though, and that worried her a little bit. It was just past nine o'clock, and she'd kind of expected to see her up and about at this point in the morning. Or at least see her asleep on the couch.

 _I hope everything's okay,_ she thought fervently. Over the past few days she had been the communication center for _operation: help Reid_ , staying in touch with whoever was currently staying with him and compiling information. Out of everyone else, she probably knew the most about what their youngest team member was going through. And while she was still trying to maintain her sunny optimism, it was getting harder and harder to keep it up.

She tapped the bedroom door open and smiled despite herself. Reid slept in JJ's arms, his cheek tucked against her shoulder and her blonde hair strewn across the pillow. She seemed peaceful, her chest rising and falling in slow even measures and her hand resting protectively over his, but Reid seetmed restless, his face scrunched up and his lips twitching.

For a moment she was tempted to wake them up, but Reid desperately needed any sleep he could get. So instead she backed out of the room and closed the door quietly.

She might as well find something to do, but she wasn't sure what. Reid's apartment was small but approximately ninety percent books, and she wasn't about to mess with those- most likely he kept them in a very precise order known only to him.

She pulled her laptop out of her bag and sat down at the couch, propping it up on the armrest. "Oh, of course," she said aloud, her voice sounding too loud in the thick silence. "Why did I expect that the boy wonder would have wifi? I should have thought of that."

She closed the laptop lid and set it aside with a heavy sigh, glancing around her surroundings. Reid's apartment was depressing. Scrubbed clean but a little cluttered around the edges, heavy curtains, everything secondhand (not even charmingly vintage, just old). _Why doesn't he have anything fun?_ she thought.

She couldn't stand sitting around hoping for them to wake up. It reminded her of being the only awake kid at a sleepover, burrowing in her sleeping bag and listening to her friend's parents bustle around the kitchen- slightly uncomfortable and a little unsettling.

Garcia drummed her fingers on the armrest. Coffee. She could use coffee. And JJ probably did too. Not Reid, not now, but she could get him at least a little something to perk him up. He deserved it. And she couldn't handle sitting around in the heavy silence alone. Maybe by the time she came back from her errand, things would be a bit less uncomfortable.

* * *

The first thing she realized was that her arm was asleep. Not just asleep, but fully numb, not even pinpricks in her fingertips.

JJ opened her heavy eyes slowly, wincing as she tried to move her hand. Spencer slept curled against her, pinning her arm in place, his cheek pressed against her shoulder and his head tucked against her cheek. She cautiously slid her arm out from underneath him in tiny intervals, trying not to wake him up.

Miraculously he stayed asleep. She shifted carefully so she could see him better, letting him sink into the pillows. His cheeks were still flushed red with fever, his hair curling against his damp temples, his lips parted as he breathed heavily.

JJ bit back a sigh. She'd been hoping he would be better in the morning, but this didn't seem better to her. At least he'd slept through the night without getting too restless. Maybe the sleep still helped, even though his fever hadn't broken.

She cupped her hand over his forehead. Heat still radiated from his skin, burning into her palm. Yeah, the fever hadn't broken. It might have even spiked a little higher.

She slid out of bed as carefully as she could and moved the blankets, pulling back the comforter and tucking the sheets around him. Spencer mumbled something under his breath, rolling over onto his stomach and burrowing into his pillows. She snuck out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Garcia sat on the couch, jabbing at her laptop keyboard. "Why can't you pick up _any_ signal, you stupid creature, I don't understand," she said to herself.

"Computer troubles?" JJ grinned.

"We need to get this child some modern-day internet," Garcia said. "I would take AOL dialup at this point."

"Internet for what? The computer he doesn't own?"

Garcia laughed. "Okay, we'll get him a computer and then we'll get him internet," she said. "How are you doing, sunshine?"

"Fine?" JJ sighed. "I think. It was a really rough day yesterday."

Garcia closed her laptop and turned to face her. "Yeah, that seizure sounded pretty bad," she said. "How was he afterwards?"

"Not great," she admitted. "He was really disoriented. It's...it's really hard to see him like this. He's not himself at all."

"Yeah, but we'll get him back," Garcia said. She was unusually subdued today- still dressed in a cheerful shade of yellow, but with a distinct lack of jewelry and accessories, and her hair was pinned up with a single jawclip. "Hey. I got you coffee."

"Oh my god, thank you." JJ sighed.

Garcia nodded towards the end table; JJ picked up the still-warm cup. "I didn't memorize everyone's coffee orders for nothing," Garcia said. "I would have picked up something for Reid, but I don't think that would be the best idea for him right now."

"Yeah, you're probably right," JJ said. She took a sip of her coffee. "He's out like a light. It's so hard to get him to sleep even under normal situations, I feel like we need to let him sleep whenever he can."

"Oh, absolutely," Garcia said. "After reading his case file, I'd be shocked if he's slept at all since Georgia."

JJ hesitated. "Garcia...can I read it?" she asked. "The case file, I mean. I know Hotch and Gideon have read it, and you guys talked about it when...when Morgan caught him in the bathroom."

"Oh!" Garcia said. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. You were in your office watching Reid while we...yeah. Yeah, I have the file downloaded to my laptop. I figured I'd hold onto it while…" She cleared her throat. "Yes. Okay. I'll get you caught up."

* * *

"Garcia, can you translate this?" JJ asked, holding out her phone. "I swear to god, someone needs to teach Morgan how to text. I can't read anything he sends me."

Garcia squinted at the screen: _Cler bllpen wait in ur ofice reid sos_

"Clear bullpen, wait in your office, Reid SOS," she read.

"Are you sure that's what he means?" Emily said, craning her neck to look over JJ's shoulder.

"I'm absolutely sure," Garcia said. "I don't know why he sent that, but that's what he said."

"JJ, go," Hotch said. "Everybody else...conference room."

"Okay, okay, but what's going on?" Garcia pressed. Hotch didn't answer, but she had her own suspicions...and they weren't good.

She purposefully took a seat near the window so she could peek through the blinds, setting her closed laptop down on the round table. "Oh, there they are," she said. "Oh, Reid doesn't look good."

Morgan was holding Reid up, his arm tight around his shoulders. Even at that distance she could see how pale he was, how his steps stumbled. Morgan had to keep his pace slow to let him keep up.

"He definitely doesn't look good," Emily said in a low voice. "What should we do?"

"I assume Morgan wants to talk to us," Hotch said. "We'll stay here until we hear from him."

It took a little while, but eventually Morgan let himself into the conference room and closed the door firmly behind him. "What's happening? What's wrong?" Garcia demanded.

"Is Reid all right?" Hotch asked.

Morgan closed the blinds. "We need to talk," he said. "And no. He's not okay." He folded his arms over his chest, his broad shoulders bowing. "He was...he's high."

Garcia's jaw dropped. "You're fucking kidding me," she said. "High? On what?"

"The dilaudid?" Hotch guessed, his voice so quiet it was unnerving.

Morgan gave a tight nod back in response. "It's the stuff Hankel gave him."

"So Hankel injected him repeatedly with his dilaudid concoction, and Reid got addicted?" Emily said. "Makes sense, I guess."

"No, it doesn't make sense!" Garcia said sharply. "He's...hello, okay, we're talking about Reid, right? Dr. Spencer Reid? _Our_ Reid? There's no way. He's too smart for this."

A long, stilted silence.

"It does make sense," Hotch said softly. "He's been quieter than usual, withdrawn. He won't eat, he won't sleep."

"But he always acts like that," Morgan said. "There wasn't any way to tell the difference."

"No, he's been different," Hotch said, gritting his teeth. "We wrote it off as him just being Reid, or that he was just still recovering from Georgia."

"But even if that was the case, we should have said something!" Garcia said. "We should have done something!" She twisted around in her chair to look at Morgan. "How did he get like this? How could none of us catch this? You guys are _profilers,_ you literally do this for a living! How couldn't you catch that something was wrong?"

The silence fell over them again, thick and uncomfortable. She clenched her hands into fists, but after a moment she reached for her laptop instead. "Well, we'll just have to fix this," she said.

"That's not going to be easy, baby girl," Morgan said. "He's not going to get better overnight. This is the long haul. And he's got to go through withdrawal."

"Mm-hm," she said, typing furiously. "Dilaudid withdrawal. It can last seven to fourteen days. Vomiting, muscle and bone pain, fever, tachycardia, anxiety and agitation…" She looked up from the screen. "Guys, we can't leave him alone for this. There's no way in hell."

"And if he's been using Hankel's private stash all this time, it's stronger, that's going to make it worse to get out of," Emily said. "What should we do? Hospitalize him, send him to rehab?"

Hotch shook his head. "If anyone higher up finds out, he could lose his job," he said. "We need to keep his detox a secret. Hospitalization would be a last resort."

Garcia clicked through the search engine results, her head spinning. "Guys, dilaudid withdrawal can trigger seizures," she said. "That's bad. He nearly died after a seizure."

"We'll have to stay with him," Hotch said. "Someone should be with him at all times. Even if he doesn't think he needs someone, there's no telling what can happen."

"I'll make a schedule," Garcia said. "We'll all take turns. I don't think anyone would be opposed?"

"Not at all," Emily said quietly.

"I'll take him home and stay with him first," Morgan said. "Out of all of us, I think I'm the only one who can mandhandle him into listening."

He started to get up, but Hotch held out his hand, signalling him to wait. "Before we get into this," he said. "You need to know what Spencer went through. Garcia, can you pull up the case file?"

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and clicked around on her laptop until the document filled her screen.

* * *

He was dreaming, but it might have been a memory.

He was small- four or five, six at the oldest. He was curled up on the couch, his head resting on his mother's lap, and she held a book in her hand.

"'Ah, courteous knight,' quoth she, what secret wound could ever find, to grieve the gentlest heart on ground?" Diana read, her voice soft and soothing.

She stroked his hair as she read, even and perfectly rhythmic, her fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp. He cuddled up close, his cheek pillowed on his hand, his eyes half closed.

"The knight much wondered at his sudden wit, and said 'the term of life is limited, nay may a man prolong, nor shorten it'," she read, and there was a clarity in her voice that he hadn't heard for a very, very long time. He'd nearly forgotten what she sounded like back then.

"Diana, can't you read him something a little more age appropriate?"

He raised his head. His father stood in the doorway, still dressed in his work clothes, his tie half undone. "This is age appropriate," Diana said, unbothered.

"Can't you read him something better for a kindergartener?" William asked. "Thomas the Tank Engine, or Clifford, or-"

"Picture books bore him," Diana said. "Besides, this copy has pictures. Look, here's a lovely illustration of Talus dismembering Munera."

William shook his head. "Jesus," he mumbled under his breath as he walked out of the room.

"Never mind your father," Diana said. She bent over him and kissed his temple. "He just doesn't understand things the way you and I do."

He smiled, sighing a little in contentment as she kept petting his hair. She kept reading, calm and warm. He could hear how much she loved him in the sound of her voice.

"All ends that was begun. Their times in his eternal book of fate are written sure, and have their certain date. Who then can strive with strong necessity, that holds the world in his still changing state, or shun the death ordain'd by destiny? When hour of death is come, let none ask whence, or why."

He was nearly asleep, lulled by his mother's voice and the comfort of her presence. It had been a long time since he had felt so small and safe and peaceful.

"I was like you, you know."

His eyes shot open. The sense of peace was gone, replaced with an ice-cold prickle at the back of his neck.

Tobias Hankel stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes sad.

Diana kept reading, quiet and measured, her diction perfect.

"The longer life, I wrote the greater sin- the greater sin, the greater punishment. All those great battles which thou boasts to win, through strife, and bloodshed, and avengement, now prais'd, hereafter dear thou shalt repent. For life must life, and blood must blood repay."

Tobias didn't move. He just watched him. "We're not that different, you and me," he said.

He sat up slowly. "Mom," he whispered. He grabbed her arm. "Mom, help me."

But she kept reading.

"Is not enough thy evil life forespent? For he, that once hath missed the right way, the further he doth go, the further he doth stray."

Tobias still didn't move, but he wanted to run away before he had the chance to come closer. "I was smart, like you," he said quietly. "Everybody said so. But my mom left, and things got real hard, and my dad just kind of…" He shrugged, gesturing towards Diana. "You know what I mean."

He clutched his mother's arm, his nails digging into her skin. "Mom, help," he begged. "I'm scared. Mom, I'm scared."

But she kept reading.

"Is not he just, that all this doth behold from highest heaven, and bears an equal eye? Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold, and guilty be of thy impiety?"

"You're a sinner," Tobias said sadly. "Maybe my daddy was right after all."

Gone was the sense of calm and safety. Panic choked him as Tobias stared him down from the doorway and he shook Diana with all the strength in his body. "Mom, help me, please," he begged. "I don't know what to do. I'm so scared."

And still Diana read.

"Is not his law, let every sinner die? Die all shall flesh? What then must need be done? Is it not better to do willingly, than linger till the glass be all outrun?"

Tobias tilted his head, but said nothing. "I'm sorry!" Spencer sobbed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" He clung to Diana desperately, but she didn't even look at him, lost in her own little world. "Mom! Help me!"

"Death is the end of woes," Tobias quoted, finishing the stanza. Dark red blossomed over his chest. The empty syringe fell from his hand to the floor. "Do you think I'll see my mom again?"

Spencer screamed.

* * *

JJ rubbed at her watering eyes with the heel of her palm and kept clicking through the PDF, forcing herself to read through Spencer's notes. She had told herself for months that he was fine, that he'd recovered, that what had happened had been put away and filed on a shelf as nothing but a vague bad memory.

There was no polite phrasing in his words, no sugarcoating, no nuance. He spelled everything out in terse tight sentences, and he forgot nothing.

Of course he forgot nothing.

A sharp scream startled her out of her reverie; she unfolded from her spot on the couch and closed Garcia's laptop. "What's wrong?" she demanded, pushing open the door to Spencer's room.

Spencer pushed himself up into a sitting position, his hair hanging over his eyes. He said something garbled and intelligible, his hand tangling in the neckline of his shirt. Garcia leaned over him, her hand resting on his forearm. "I think he was dreaming," she said. "He just...I don't know. I don't know. Has he been like this?"

"He's been pretty quiet, honestly," JJ said. She sat down on the edge of the bed and took Spencer by the shoulders. "Spence, are you okay?" She drew back. "Oh my god, he's burning up. Can you grab the thermometer? It's in the bathroom."

She gently pried Spencer's hand from his shirt. "Hey, Spence," she said. "What's wrong? Can you talk to me?"

He stared past her, his eyes fixed on the doorway. "He's here," he whispered, his jaw slack. "He's here."

"Who's here?" she asked. She stroked his hair back from his forehead. "It's just me and Garcia here. Nobody else."

His chest heaved, but he didn't answer.

Garcia handed her the thermometer. "Do you think we should take him to a hospital?" she asked.

"I don't know," she said. She slipped the thermometer into his mouth, cupping his chin to keep him steady. "It comes down to which the bigger risk- losing his job, or if he's in danger."

She waited for the thermometer to beep, and her heart sank. "What's that face for?" Garcia asked. "That's not a good face."

"A hundred and three point five," she said. "Shit. That's the highest it's been so far."

"What should we do?" Garcia asked.

JJ touched his cheek, rubbing her thumb against his jawline. "If he reaches a hundred and four, or he has another seizure, we're calling an ambulance," she said.

Spencer blinked, and a little bit of clarity broke through the cloudy haze in his soft brown eyes. "JJ?" he said, his face scrunching in confusion.

"Hi," she said. "Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay? Can you talk to me?"

He dragged his hand over his face. "I don't feel well," he mumbled.

"I know," she said. "You have a really high fever. But you're going to be okay." Spencer's thin shoulders hunched, and she could already tell that he was slipping away again. "Just rest. Go back to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up."

He nodded, trusting as a child. Slowly he sank back against the pillows, his eyes sliding shut. "God, I hate this," Garcia said under her breath. "What do we do?"

"We have to get his fever down," JJ said. She rested her hand lightly on Spencer's chest. "It's all we can do for now."

* * *

He ran.

He ran like his life depended on it, his heart pumping, his slick-soled dress shoes slipping on the soft wet earth. Dry cornstalks bent and waved around him, tearing at his face, his arms. The air tasted wet and rotting, threatening rain.

He ran like his life depended on it, because it did.

The footsteps behind were heavy, steady, sure. No matter how fast he ran, the steps followed, never picking up in pace, but always just behind him, threatening him.

The moon was big and bright above him, but he was hot, he was on fire from the effort of running, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He was burning from the inside out, and he couldn't stop, he couldn't take a breath.

When he was a little kid- an eight-year-old starting his freshman year- they made him take gym class with teenagers twice his size, almost twice his age. He couldn't keep up. They made him run the mile, gasping for breath in the dry Las Vegas heat, his too-small sneakers pinching his feet and cutting blisters into his heels. They teased him mercilessly, until he was able to talk the adults into letting him switch, and he didn't have to dread his third period class anymore.

It didn't dissuade the older kids from teasing him, though. If anything, it gave them more ammunition.

He kept running, hoping for the footsteps to go quiet, hoping to see a break in the neverending cornstalks, hoping that someone would find him before the person chasing him caught him first.

He was ten years old when they tied him and left him in the late summer sun, let him scream and burn and cry, and in the end he saved himself.

They came, once. He was pulled from the grave he'd dug for himself, biting back tears, his legs threatening to give out from underneath him. For that one moment, had been safe.

It was too hot. He ran and he ran, his strength draining from his body, the heat sinking into his skin and sapping his strength.

The footsteps followed him, steady as a metronome.

He ran.

* * *

JJ draped a cool damp washcloth over Spencer's forehead. He was breathing hard, as if he'd just run a marathon, and his long limbs twitched and jumped.

"Do you think we should call somebody?" Garcia asked. She had pulled a chair into the corner of the room and stayed sentinel, watching over them. "Hotch, maybe? Or Morgan?"

"What for?" JJ said. She touched the back of her hand to his thin cheek. "No one else is going to be able to do anything for him. All we can do is try to keep him hydrated and try to cool him down."

Spencer whined through his teeth, rolling over onto his side and drawing his knees up to his chest. JJ placed her hand on his side. "It's okay," she said softly. "You're okay, Spence."

She rubbed her thumb lightly against his side, hoping the slight weight of her hand would reassure him. He shifted restlessly, his discomfort flickering over his face, and he shivered. The chills came in waves, making him shake uncontrollably, and she ran her hand over his tangled hair.

"Poor baby," Garcia said softly. "Do you think we should call his mother and let her know what's happening?"

"She can't do anything either," JJ said. She sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged at Spencer until he was curled up with his head resting on her lap, his arms tucked against his chest. He shivered, his teeth chattering, and she tucked him in securely. She stroked his hair gently, rhythmically, watching his face for any signs of change. All she could do was wait and hope that this would all be over soon.

* * *

It was cold in the cabin.

The cold sank into his skin, deep into his bones, and his thin shirt offered almost no protection from the chill in the air. He thought that just a moment ago it was hot, too hot, but now he was freezing cold, his wrists locked tight to the old railback chair and the roughhewn floor scraping at the soles of his bare feet.

No matter where he went, he kept coming back to the cabin.

Tobias stood beside him, his left hand cradling Spencer's arm, his right holding a syringe. "Tell me it doesn't help," he said softly.

He looked up at him. "I want it," he whispered. "I want it, I want it, make it go away."

"This isn't going to help, Reid."

He raised his head and saw Hotch standing in front of him, his ever-present frown etched across his face, his arms folded. "It will," he said, and even in his own ears he sounded small and lost and childlike.

"It's not going to help," Hotch repeated. "It'll make things worse. Why are you always making things worse? You don't think anything through. You don't listen."

"I do, I do listen," he protested.

"They sent me in here with an unarmed kid who can't shoot his way out of a wet paper bag," Hotch said.

His heart thudded in his chest.

"He failed his qualification. Twice a year, I gotta listen to him whine about requalifying. So I tutor him, and he fails again."

Tobias looked down at him, the syringe hovering over his arm. "You learned eventually," he said, and Spencer stared down at his chained wrists.

"Why did you leave me behind?"

It wasn't Hotch now, it was JJ, her blue eyes big and round and sad. "You left me behind, Spence," she said. "You shouldn't have split up from me. You ran and you left me behind."

"I'm sorry," he said. "JJ, I'm so sorry."

"I could have been killed," she said. "And it would have been your fault."

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's your own fault you ended up like this, you know," she said. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't been so stupid."

Tears burned behind his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, softer and smaller still, and he couldn't look her in the eye.

"You could have told me, you know."

And it wasn't JJ, it was Emily, hands on her hips, shoulders sagging in exasperation. "You didn't tell anybody," she said. "You had so many chances to tell us. You could have told me. I could have helped you, if you would just _open your mouth and say something."_

"I couldn't," he said helplessly.

"You could have," she accused. "Everyone knew something was wrong. I've only known you for a few months, and even I could tell. You should have said something."

"I couldn't," he said. He looked up at Tobias. "Please, please, just make it stop. Make it stop."

"There hath no temptation taken hold of you but such as is common to man," Tobias quoted softly. "But God is faithful; He will not suffer you to be tempted beyond that which ye are able to bear, but with the temptation will also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it."

Spencer sagged against the chair. They were right. They were all right.

"You're weak."

He looked up, and it was Charles Hankel, wild eyed and teeth bared, and he flinched. "I see you cower at me, boy," Charles snarled. "You can't stand up to me. Just like my son couldn't stand up to me."

He tried to make himself small, curling into the chair, his wrists pinned, the cuffs cutting into his skin. "Please, please, please," he begged. "Tobias, help me. Just do it, just do it."

But Tobias kept his hand on his arm, the syringe still hovering over his skin. "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind," he said gently.

"Tobias, I don't deserve to get better," he whispered. "I don't, I don't deserve it…"

"You are stronger than him," Tobias said. "He cannot break you."

He recognized the words, Gideon's words, and Tobias capped the syringe. "It'll be okay," he said, smiling at him. He touched Spencer's inner arm, his fingers covering the track marks. "Love prospers when a fault is forgiven, but dwelling on it separates close friends."

Tobias unlocked the cuffs and his hands fell limply to his lap. "You've confessed your sins, Spencer Reid," he said. "Go on home now."

* * *

He opened his eyes, dizzy and disoriented. It was dark, but after a moment he recognized his own bedroom, faint early evening light glowing through the crack in the curtains. Sweat clung to his body, soaking his pajamas, but he wasn't on fire, and he wasn't freezing.

The bedside light switched on and he winced, scrunching up his face. "Hi, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Garcia said hastily. She smiled at him, a little unsure. "How are you?"

"Tired," he rasped. "Thirsty."

She picked up a glass of water from his nightstand and helped him sit up, moving his pillows behind his back. "Drink all of that," she said. "I'll get you more. There's some gatorade in the fridge, too, you probably need that."

He drank greedily, cold water spilling over his chin and dripping on his shirt, and when the glass was empty he felt like he could keep drinking and never have enough. "How long have I been sleeping?" he asked, groggy and squinting in the warm amber light.

"Most of the afternoon," she said, gently prying the glass from his hands. "Your temperature spiked really, really high today. Like almost let's-call-an-ambulance high. But the fever broke about two hours ago. I think we've got you out of the woods, champ."

He rubbed his eyes. "Where's JJ?" he asked.

"I sent her home once we realized you were doing better," she said. "She was exhausted. But you're not going to be alone, okay? I'm staying with you, and someone else will be here in the morning."

He was exhausted too, the bone-deep ache in his body and the last remaining vestiges of fever leaving him weak and shaky and limp as a wrung-out dishtowel. "Can I go back to sleep?" he asked.

"Of course, my darling," she said. "Do you need anything else?"

He shook his head, sleep already pulling at him, and he eased back down. Garcia adjusted the blankets up to his shoulders, smoothing them out with gentle little pats. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in months he slept without dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF. This was a hard update to get out!!
> 
> I started back at work (in the blistering heat and humidity, in the midst of a global pandemic) and I've been super super stressed, which meant that updates kind of suffered. I missed two weekends (two? or just one? I don't even know anymore) and this one is late, but it's here!
> 
> Originally this chapter was going to be VERY different, but I had two requests on tumblr! One was to write about what happened in the office when they talked about Spencer...and the other request was to make it even whumpier. Hopefully it was achieved!!
> 
> Diana is reading from The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spenser (book three, canto nine, I think? I forgot to write it down in my notes, oops) One of my headcanons is that William and Diana argued a LOT about what to name their son, and William was adamant that he needed a normal name and nothing crazy from Diana's books. He didn't realize the Spencer connotations until much later. 
> 
> Just a few more parts left! The next two parts will probably be much shorter, but with a solid closing chapter, and then it'll be time to move on to the next arc!
> 
> My tumblr is themetaphorgirl if you'd like to be pals! (and tomorrow will be an update for Patron Saint of Lost Causes, hurray!)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was going to be a single chapter, but like most things I've been writing lately, it expanded. I've written twenty pages so far and I'm barely a fourth of the way through. So y'all are gonna get a bunch of individual chapters!
> 
> I also started posting my boarding school AU (whoops) which I am EXTREMELY excited about. I've decided I'm going to post updates to the Waving Through a Window series on Mondays, and updates to the boarding school AU, Patron Saint of Lost Causes, on Thursdays. That way new things are spread out a little bit! Plus, I just found out that i'll be going back to work soon, so this will let me write a lot over the next few weeks and get ahead of my posting schedule, since I'm sure things will be extremely chaotic once I'm back driving my truck and pointing at giraffes again.
> 
> Also! I've been posting a TON of prompt fills on my tumblr, so I'm going to start posting them here as well so they're all archived! My tumblr is themetaphorgirl, so come hi and prompt things if you'd like!!
> 
> Special thanks to my beta expecto-weasleys!!
> 
> Up next: all Spencer wanted was to be left alone, but Derek Morgan was camped out in his living room


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